Memories of Ghosts
by thesketchytepe
Summary: During a world meeting, Arthur's mind keeps skipping back to the 16th century, recalling a time when he accidentally fell in love. He remembers the happiness, the sorrow, the strength, and the anger he felt while standing by his dearest queen's side. As he replays these memories, he comes to realize that there is another man at the meeting that felt the way as he did for another.
1. Chapter 1

****Re-watching Hetalia is not good for me: it stirs up story ideas and intense historical research that I don't have time for (yet here we are). Sketchy Tepe here to ruin your day again by stabbing your feels** **?** **The only thing you need to be cautious about while reading this fic is gore/violence and language. I did as much research as I could to make sure I was getting my facts straight about Queen Elizabeth's reign but I'm American (sorry) and kinda stupid so I sincerely apologize for any mistakes in this historical fic.**

 **I'll also leave little footnotes at the bottom of each chapter in case you are unfamiliar with any of the historical references mentioned. Free history lesson for everyone!**

 **Anyway thank you so much for reading my story and I hope you enjoy it.****

 _14 September 1533_

"M-Mr. England, sir?"

He turned his head at the sound of his entitlement. "Hm?"

He spotted young Emily, one of the many maids working around the castle, standing by the doorway of the library.

"I'm terribly sorry for interrupting your time alone, sir," she said nervously, her voice hardly above a whisper. "But the king is requesting your presence in the throne room."

He couldn't help it; his shoulders slumped in annoyance and he let out a long sigh from his nostrils. He stood still for a moment before shutting the book he was reading (Thomas More's _Utopia_ _ **[1]**_ —he wanted to relish in a society and government that wasn't his own for a change).

"What does he want now?" he muttered under his breath. He made sure that only he heard his own comment by keeping his voice lower than Emily's and speaking into the ancient bookcase while sliding the hardcover book back into its place. The young nation faced the maid once more, nodded once, and then said loud enough for her to hear, "Fine. I'll meet him there. Thank you, Emily."

She nodded back and then retreated from the doorway, quickly performing a shaky curtsey before taking her leave. He scratched the back of his neck and wondered why Emily was more anxious than usual. Was she uncomfortable around his presence (he made a lot of people feel that way apparently) or was it Henry's immature and foolish behavior that sent a shiver down the girl's spine? _Either one has a fair chance at being the cause,_ Arthur Kirkland thought to himself as he strolled out of the library and through the many halls it took to get to the throne room.

Henry VII made almost every vein in Arthur's body burst in utter frustration every time he seemed to do anything. He had the temper of a child and the mind-set of a dog, he made absurd decisions and complained constantly, and Arthur had no choice but to go along with his every command. It was a country's job to serve their leader, no matter how crazy or barbaric they seemed. _It could be worse,_ he reminded himself. _Other countries had attended rulers much crueler than Henry. China has had his fair share of harsh emperors over time and I hear Russia is rather worrisome for his new prince_ _ **[2]**_ _._

Arthur eventually came to his destination and tugged on his high collar before pushing open the grand doors that led to the throne room.

It was late at night so the only thing that helped Arthur actually see into the long and narrow room were the occasional candles that were placed oddly around and the frequent bolt of lightning that flashed across the wide windows. In the dim lighting, he could see the faint outlines of the rest of the furniture that helped made up the throne room: the long red velvet rug that began at his feet and ran along to the other side of the room, the candelabras that kept on switching places every time he entered there, the tall portraits of English kings and queens that hung on the red walls, and not to mention the two gigantic thrones that sat underneath an enormous chandelier (which was unlit at the moment). He also made out two male figures near the thrones—one was pacing madly in front of the chairs while the other simply stood next to them, still and unnerved. Arthur could hear the pacing man's irritated shouts echo throughout the room and he instantly recognized the voice as the king himself. Although he couldn't get a good look at his face, Arthur assumed the man standing beside Henry was Thomas Cromwell[3], one of Henry's most trusted men. Arthur sighed, gently closed the doors behind him, and then slowly made his way over to the two silhouettes.

"…gave me another daughter!" Henry was exclaiming as Arthur strolled across the leading rug, the buckles on his boots clinking together as he made each step. "She promised me a proper heir, a son, and what does she present to me? Another illegitimate excuse—another daughter!"

Another flash of lightning blinked outside the windows as did another cry of thunder.

"How dare she do such a thing to me," grumbled Henry, acting as though the terrible weather outside was nothing more than the chirping of a lone bird.

"Your Majesty," Thomas spoke up, trying to soothe the king with rational words, "our country has had many wonderful queens in the past. Perhaps Mary is the rightful ruler; we can find her a suitable prince to marry when the time is right—"

Henry stopped at Thomas's side and threw his hands in the air. "I require a son!"

"You've requested me, my king?" Arthur casually interrupted, not containing enough patience to quietly stand to the side.

Both men turned their heads in his direction; they were both a little relieved.

"Yes, England. I did." Henry stepped away from Thomas and then continued with his pacing. "I have a problem that needs to be resolved."

"I assume it revolves around Princess Elizabeth?" he said. It was supposed to be a statement (he knew what Henry's problem was, everyone in England knew), but it came out in the form of a guess, for the king's sake.

A week ago, Henry's wife, Anne Boleyn, had given birth to a baby girl, Henry's second daughter. Arthur had seen her once for a brief moment on the princess's birthday before he was ordered to speak with Henry about the supposedly "dreadful birth."

It was now Arthur's turn to get snapped at. Henry quickly faced him once more and stated in a loud and firm tone, "You are not to call her a princess! She is illegitimate and should only go by 'Lady Elizabeth.'"[4] A short pause ensued before he went on marching. "But no. She is not of my concern at the moment. It is Anne."

Most people would flinch or feel rather anxious while being screamed at by the short-tempered king, but Arthur and Thomas were so used to it, they simply exchanged bored expressions with each other when Henry's back was turned. "You're upset because of her failure to produce a son?" Arthur asked (again he "asked" for the king's sake).

"Precisely. I don't know what I am to do with her. She cannot be queen if she fails to do as I ask which is one simple thing: to produce a rightful heir. Mary and Elizabeth can't have my position once I am gone."

Arthur scrunched his thick eyebrows in confusion. What was he planning to with her? Put her under house arrest like he did with Catherine of Aragon?[5] He was technically still married to her, but he figured now wasn't the best time to bring that up. Yes, Anne was snobbish and probably just as selfish as the king, but she didn't do anything wrong. He knew that she wanted to please Henry as much as she could—because he was the king or he was her husband, he couldn't tell.

"You wish to divorce her?" Arthur inputted.

"Something of the sort. She cannot be in power if she can't bring me a son."

"Just—Just give her some time. In a few weeks, you two could try again and she could possibly produce the heir you so desire." Arthur glared at Thomas who caught the hint and added in, "Yes. Just because Anne had a daughter the first time doesn't mean she will the second or third. Also give the new Prince—er, Lady the love she deserves. She hasn't done anything wrong; I'm sure your future son and heir will come soon enough."

Henry's pacing slowly came to a stop with his back facing both Thomas and Arthur. _He's listening. Good._

"Anne only wishes the best for you," Arthur said. "She would never deliberately hurt or disobey you. Give her another chance."

 _And at least give your children some respect, you wanker_ , Arthur thought but didn't say.

Thomas and Arthur stood in silence for a while as Henry pondered their advice. At the flash of another lightning bolt, he turned and then nodded once in agreement.

"All right. I'll follow your guidance and hope for the best. Both of you are dismissed."

Feeling slightly better than before, Arthur bowed his head in parting along with Thomas and left the throne room, leaving Henry to look out the large windows, finally seeming to notice the chaotic rain and loud thunder.

Once the doors to the room were closed, Thomas let out a breath of fresh air and faced Arthur. "I must thank you for your helpful words, England. He always seems to calm down a little whenever you talk to him."

He shrugged. "You learn a thing or two when serving kings for hundreds of years."

Thomas smirked. "Well, I should report this for the others to see. They should treat Elizabeth and Anne with respect, just like how Henry wants it."

Arthur nodded. "I suppose I should pay Anne a visit and tell her not to worry so; Henry has given her another chance."

And with that, the respected men went their separate ways to do as they had said.

It took even more time to get to Elizabeth's nursery than it had to get to the throne room. Instead of passing his eyes over the marvelous decorations and exquisite antiques that adored the halls, Arthur watched his knee-high boots kick out in front of him as he thought about his conversation with the king.

He was able to save Anne from Henry's angered clutches this time, but he feared he wouldn't be able to the next time. He _knew_ there'd be a next time; he wouldn't let this go for he could hold a grudge like no other. If Anne wasn't able to birth a son, Arthur was afraid she might end up like Catherine or worse. _Bloody hell, what am I going to do? Words can only take me so far, especially with a quick-tempered man like Henry. Either Anne must give him what he wants or Mary better prove herself to be an appropriate queen._

 _God help us all._

He eventually made it to the nursery and when he discovered the door to be closed, he lightly rapped his bony knuckles against its wooden surface. No answer came through and so he tried again, a bit louder this time.

"Who is it?" came the muffled reply of Anne Boleyn.

"It's England."

A short pause. "Come on in."

He slowly opened the door, a slight squeaking noise following after it. The small room was much darker than the throne room—only one candle was lit which stood straight on a night table beside a rocking chair in the center of the room where Queen Anne sat. She held a bundle of blankets in her arms and was looking fondly down at it, at tiny Elizabeth Tudor. The sound of the old rocking chair creaking upon the floorboards and the thunderous raining were the only noises present, giving the room a mysterious feel.

"Try not to make too much noise," Anne spoke, not lifting her eyes from her child. "She just fell asleep."

Arthur tried to close the door as quietly as he could, but it still made an audible squeak and click. He straightened up and faced her again. "I'm here to bring you news."

He saw her smirk in the glow of the candlelight. "If Henry is still upset with me, then it's not considered news at all. Now if fat pigs had magically grew wings and are currently flying through the air, that would be rather interesting news."

Arthur cracked a crooked smile at Anne's sarcasm. "I'm afraid it's not that sort of news, but it is something to take note of. Henry has calmed down. Thomas and I spoke with him just now and convinced him to give you another chance. He believes you can produce him a son and hasn't given up on you."

At this, Anne looked up at him. For a beautiful woman, she appeared rather sulky, very gloomy. He couldn't blame her—she'd just given birth a week ago and was still recovering. She wasn't sporting expensive jewelry and exotic dresses like she usually did. She now had her dark hair pulled back into a saggy bun, wore a loose-fitting dress, and she was free of any accessories and makeup. She looked so tired. Tired and exhausted.

"Has he really?" she asked.

"Yes, he has. He won't treat Elizabeth like the lowly lady he thought she was, but rather as the treasured princess she was born to be."

Anne stared at him a bit longer, squinting her eyes at him like she was trying to uncover any secrets he held. Finding nothing, she smirked again. "Well I'm positive that his change of mind was your doing so thank you kindly. You're one of the few that he listens to." She looked back down at Elizabeth. "He refuses to listen to me. His queen, his own wife…"

Arthur shifted onto one foot, a little uncomfortable now. He didn't know how to respond to situations like this, where it solely depended on feelings and emotions. He wasn't good with those things; he'd often say the wrong thing and end up getting angry in the end. He was great at snapping people into shape, not comforting them.

Anne ignored Arthur's silence as she gracefully stood up from the rocking chair and strolled over to the wooden crib in the corner of the room. She slowly and gently placed sleepy Elizabeth into the crib and stared at her some more.

"I know my duty is to provide Henry with a son," Anne whispered, "but, after birthing Elizabeth, I can't see loving anyone else more than her."

Another comment that Arthur didn't know how to respond to. He was one of the younger countries around the world so he hasn't raised or taken care of another country like how a mother would. France was a pain in the arse (and still is) to be around when he first started out, Russia was too busy conquering smaller countries like Lithuania and Poland, and Prussia was doing a shitty job at attempting to raise Germany. He was the younger one, but yet he was the stronger one; he has invaded and took control of more countries than anyone else during his life and he'd won several wars and battles. Being the smallest didn't mean being the weakest or unqualified, it meant greater opportunities and more determined spirits.

"Maybe you won't love anyone else like her," Arthur mumbled. "Maybe you're giving her all the credit she deserves." He looked at Anne. "Perhaps it's everyone else not giving her a chance to prove herself worthy."

Anne slowly smiled, a real smile. She was suddenly beautiful again and no longer melancholy. "She has already proven herself worthy. She has entered this world alive and unafraid."

The queen swiftly turned around and headed for the door, saying before she left, "I will try my best to please Henry. Thank you for your service."

Arthur didn't say anything as Anne exited the nursery with the soft click of the door closing behind her. He stood still, staring at the now vacant rocking chair, lost in his own thoughts. His mind traveled back in time to around five hundred years ago, when his government was more unstable than it was now, when he was pushed around not only by other countries but by his own people. He remembered the anger and loneliness he felt and using those feelings to climb himself to the top, to become the best of the best, to show everyone that he was not to be messed with.

He was worthy.

Right?

Just then, a brilliant flash of white lightning struck outside the skinny window in the back corner of the room, illuminating the whole chamber. After the low grumble of thunder vibrated through the air, Arthur was snapped out of his thoughts by the high-pitched wailing of tiny Elizabeth. His eyes glanced over at the crib and he saw her little hands shake in fear and her body twist and turn as though she were attempting to escape from the horrible noise that was the thunder.

He sighed quietly and then walked over to the low crib.

"Oh, come now, don't cry," he muttered to the weeping child. "No need for tears, young one."

But that weak attempt did nothing to cure Elizabeth's terror. She continued screaming at the top of her incredibly small lungs and grasping at the air around her as if searching desperately for her mother.

"Thunder isn't something to be afraid of." He reached down into the crib and stroked back the wisp of red hair on the top of her round head. "You can bear through it, can't you?"

Again, nothing changed. Arthur replied by groaning dramatically and carefully scooping up the infant in his arms. "Oh, all right. I'll stop pestering you. You were born just a week ago, after all."

He strolled aimlessly around the room, struggling to calm the princess down. He gently swayed from side to side while mumbling whatever came to his mind: "There, there. Calm down, little one. Rain and thunder are going to be a part of your daily life here in London. Sometimes you'll have to trend through rivers of rainwater just to cross the front yard and the sound of thunder will become your nightly lullaby. I know—terrible, isn't it? But luckily that's why we have tea: to help make everything a little bit more tolerable. I'm sure you'll enjoy some whilst watching the rain fall when you grow older."

His rambling speech and slow movements ultimately quieted Elizabeth's sobs until she made no noise, merely glancing up at him with damp and sleepy eyes. He gazed back, studying her facial features now that she wasn't causing such a fuss.

Although she possessed her father's fiery red hair, Elizabeth appeared more so like her mother. Big brown eyes, ruby lips, a pointed chin, and plump cheeks. Her skin was a healthy peach color and felt like fine silk. She blinked slowly, trying her absolute best to stay awake but failing miserably. Her eyelids closed firmly like the entrance doors of her father's palace before falling back into a deep sleep.

Arthur stared at the slumbering child. There was so much peacefulness settled upon her features it was hard to believe that not a moment ago she was crying hysterically. Amused by this, he smirked.

"There may be mighty thunderstorms here," he whispered, fully aware that she couldn't hear him, "but trust me: this nation is worth it."

It continued to storm for the rest of the night.

* * *

[1] _Utopia_ is a novel written by Thomas Moore in 1516 about a fictional island and its religious, social, and political standpoints. Thomas was later decapitated for refusing to acknowledge Henry VII as the Church of England in 1535.

[2] Ivan the Terrible was proclaimed grand prince of Moscow in 1533 and would later become tsar of Russia in 1547. Enough said.

[3] Thomas Cromwell was a statesmen during Henry VII's reign and was one of the best England has ever seen. He was also beheaded under the orders of Henry in 1540.

[4] "Lady" is the lowest term to be called when it comes to English royal positions.

[5] Probably not needed but I'm gonna do it either way. Catherine of Aragon was Henry's first wife and the mother of Mary Tudor (who is Elizabeth's half sister).


	2. Chapter 2: Universal

****Hello again, my fellow Hetalians and I'm terribly sorry for the short chapter—it's finals week at school and I felt like I had to post something before diving into my endless hours of studying. I promise the next chapter will be longer!**

 **I also wanted to thank those who backed me up with my somewhat-accurate-history from the first chapter. I appreciate your feedback and please feel free to correct me if I post something inaccurate. I apologize if certain words aren't spelled correctly in the British sense. (I know it's in the point-of-view of England himself but my natural American senses tell me to get rid of the U's.)**

 **ONE MORE THING: For the world meetings, I thought it would be cool if the countries went to different parts of the world for each one and depending on where it is, the country of that city or place would be in charge of the meeting. (For example, if the meeting was to take place in Québec City, Canada would take charge or lead the meeting).**

 **That is all. Please enjoy the chapter!****

 _30 March 2017_

As Arthur leaned on the silver railing and peered at the small patch of land in the near distance, he marveled at how long it'd been since he'd visited Ellis Island.[1]

The immigrant inspection station—or "national monument" was what the mortals around him were calling it—was modified greatly since his first arrival on the island back in 1893. He remembered visiting America (along with many of the other countries) for the World's Fair that was held in Chicago that year.[2] In the middle of all the excitement, Alfred asked him to come with him to New York and take a look at the station. He spoke highly of it and he seemed exceptionally proud of it so Arthur agreed (he was also secretly pleased that he invited him to something without the other countries but, of course, he didn't tell him that). It was much smaller and fuller back then; men were hard at work on the building while hundreds of people from all over the world entered the station, hoping to start their lives anew in the land of the free.

Now it was much larger and vacant. The monument was finished with construction and it gave off a prideful aura with its fine details and careful attention to architecture, but perhaps fifty people at most could be spotted roaming around the island, snapping pictures or reading plaques.

The captain of the ferry told of some minor factoids about Ellis Island through the loudspeakers which Arthur didn't listen to (he knew most of it already). The tourists around him strolled to the edge of the boat to get a better view at the upcoming island. They mumbled in astonishment, pointed at things they saw, flipped out their cell phones to capture the moment. Arthur slid out of the way quietly so that the travelers could enjoy their vacation and see what they wanted to see.

After all, Arthur wasn't there for a day off. He was on business.

"Oh, hello, Mr. Britain."

He turned to face the owner of the familiar voice. "Good morning, Japan."

Kiku Honda bowed at the waist in greetings and, after an embarrassing moment of sticking out his hand to shake, Arthur did as well.

Remaining emotionless, Kiku looked up at him. "How are you today?"

He mindlessly twirled the gold ring on his finger with his thumb. "A little tired. How about you?"

"I am well, thank you." His almond-shaped eyes flicked behind Arthur and strayed on the museum. "I am enjoying this view, though. In all the years that I've known Mr. America, I don't think I have ever been to Ellis Island." He fished out a phone from his coat pocket and then stepped toward the railing with the other tourists, shooting a few pictures of their destination which they were approaching fast. "It certainly is impressive."

"Eh, it's nothing special." Arthur went to stand next to Kiku, his forearms resting upon the railing. "There are far more impressive monuments in the world than Ellis Island."

"Like the Statue of Liberty?" Kiku turned slightly to the left and took a photo of said monument. "Statues of women are very rare, you know."

Arthur chuckled lowly as the small Japanese man faced him once more, this time with a satisfied grin on his thin lips. Japan was one of his very few friends (he had many business partners and acquaintances but held only a small amount of true companions) and he liked being within his company. He was professional and well-mannered and curious and humble—he was glad to have him as an ally.[3]

As Kiku slipped his phone back into his pocket, he asked him, "Are you prepared for today's world meeting?"

"As much as I can be. America is conducting the meeting so anything could go wrong."

Kiku laughed into the chilly breeze. "You have little faith in Mr. America?"

"Of course I do! All I ever expect out of him nowadays is unnecessary amounts of gunfire and sugary foods." He shook his head. "I didn't raise him this way."

"China says the same thing about me all the time."

"And China's rulers try to kill him every other century. I wouldn't look too much into what he says."

"I'm glad that we share the same opinions, Mr. Britain."

He snickered again. He glanced upwards and noticed the docks were now only a few meters away from their slowly approaching ferry.

He absentmindedly fiddled with the gold ring on his finger once more and Kiku didn't mention this until the tourists began shuffling toward the other end of the boat, toward the exit.

"Mr. Britain, isn't that your wedding ring?"

Arthur, now suddenly aware of the extra weight on his left ring finger, clasped his hands together in hopes of concealing the piece of jewelry from Kiku's sight. His own gaze drifted down to the lapping waters below. He made sure to keep his expression flat, unresponsive.

"Yes," he replied eventually, his voice low and a bit heavy. "Yes, it is."

"The anniversary of her death was a couple days ago, wasn't it?"

"On the twenty-fourth."

A moment of silence followed. "I'm very sorry, Arthur."

He said nothing aloud but cursed at himself mentally. _Bloody fuck! Why did I decide to leave this stupid ring on today? I woke up feeling like shit and thought it would calm my nerves. I should've put it in my coat pocket or left it at home—or better yet, I should've given it away a long time ago. It's not like I'm married anymore._

Out of frustration, he unfastened his hands from each other and then pinched the almost 500-year-old ring between his fingers, fully intent on plucking it off and throwing it into the sea. But once he touched the jewelry he failed to move overall—he didn't pull, he didn't tug, he didn't do anything but stare hopelessly at his limp hand.

With all the irritation within him gone, he brought his fists up to his lips and closed his eyes.

 _I'm sorry, Lizzy. Please forgive me._

"Arthur? Are you alright?"

The Englishman, temporarily forgetting about the Japanese man beside him, suddenly stepped away from the silver railing and then marched over to the seat he was occupying before and grabbed his heavy briefcase firmly in his right hand, making sure to stuff his left one in his black slacks pocket.

"Let's go, Japan," he muttered under his breath as he briskly walked pass him. "They're unloading the docks."

"Uh, yes." Kiku scrambled for his own carrier and caught up with Arthur, keeping quiet while maintaining an eye on him.

The two men were the last visitors to depart the ferry. As the tourist group strolled toward the museum and another group began making their way onto the small boat, Arthur and Kiku stopped by one of the crewmen standing to the side, gesturing vacationers onto the ferry.

Arthur reached inside his coat pocket and pulled out his ID—it gave a brief description of his position as the embodiment of a country with a picture of him plastered next to it, similar to a driver's license—and presented it to the young crewman.

"Good morning, sir," he greeted. "We're here for the world meeting that's scheduled to be at noon."

Kiku also showed his ID and bowed his head, murmuring, "Ohayo gozaimasu."[4]

The teenager squinted at the IDs and then stepped back, his eyes now wide. "Oh yeah, the boss told me you were coming." He peeked at his wristwatch. "You guys are a little bit early. It's almost eleven thirty so you can wait in the lobby inside if ya want. Alfred isn't here yet but I'll let him know you guys are here once I see him."

He threw a big, cheesy grin in their direction and Arthur couldn't help but to see America's influence in this man's smile.

"Thank you." Arthur and Kiku stuffed their IDs back into their pockets and began on their way to the museum's entrance.

"Wait, Grandma!"

Arthur felt a tiny bump against his side and caught a flash of red zoom pass him. He noticed it to be the bobbing head of a little girl rushing in between him and Kiku. She was holding onto a stuffed rabbit in her arms and was hurrying over to an old woman a few meters away. Once she reached her grandmother, she grabbed her hand and glued herself to her side, nuzzling her head against her elbow. The grandmother laughed and leaned down to peck the top of her head.

Arthur's shoulders stiffened as he looked at the little girl's fine head of red hair, a memory surfacing to his mind.

* * *

[1] Ellis Island is an immigrant station located in New York City, right next to the Statue of Liberty in America. It opened in 1892 and closed business in 1954 and is now a national monument (pretty cool place, I suggest checking it out if you're in NYC).

[2] The World's Fair of 1893 was very surprising because it was taken place in Chicago, Illinois; America was dealing with economic struggles back then and Chicago wasn't a pretty city nor did they have a lot of men to help construct the fair. Despite this, it ended up being extremely successful with over 27 million people showing up over the six-month run.

[3] England and Japan's current relationship is strong and close. On 3 May 2011 British Foreign Secretary William Hague described the Japanese as "one of our closest partners in Asia." Many Brits also view Japan as "Britain of the East" because of their cultural similarities including their sense of humor.

[4] "Ohayo gozaimasu" means "good morning" in Japanese. "Konnichiwa", which is what most of us Westerners are more associated with, literally means "good afternoon".


	3. Chapter 3: The Royal Bastard

_17 August 1540_

Arthur's boots scraped against the dirt path, kicking cloudy dust into the air as he dragged himself to the Hatfield House.[2] He hoped this place could act as a momentary salvation for him—he needed to be rid of Henry and his high demand of rolling heads.

He examined the petit structure on his right. Compared to the other royal constructions, Hatfield House was small and quiet and had a peaceful atmosphere to it. Different shades of brown plastered the entire exterior and several capsule-shaped windows decked its brick walls. A wide and lovely garden greeted any visitors who approached the ingress, a tiny labyrinth made of trimmed shrubbery circling throughout it. The house looked especially attractive during the summer and spring seasons when the garden bloomed in colorful floras and small creatures like squirrels and rabbits could be seen hopping around the property.

The sound of children laughing could be heard coming from somewhere within the house; Arthur assumed it to be the voices of six-year-old Elizabeth and two-year-old Edward.[3] He strolled into the garden and then seated himself in one of the dead ends of the labyrinth, wanting to be alone for some time. With the morning birds singing in the distance and the gentle wind brushing against the smooth leaves, Arthur exhaled loudly before dropping his head in his hands.

 _Perhaps I should have a chat with Edward before I leave here today. He is the future king after all; he should know who I am before he takes the throne because we will be working together often. Hopefully he'll be a greater ruler than his father and won't go around marrying several women, hoping one of them will birth a boy. I should tell him to not execute his wife or his trustworthy statesman or anyone in his family. I'm starting to believe that the executioner is working far more than I am. Oh, and please don't cause any trouble for the church, little Edward. Even I can't keep track of what religion I'm supposed to be practicing._

"Am I Catholic or am I Protestant?" he wondered to himself aloud. "God, I don't know."[4]

"I'm Protestant."

Arthur nearly jumped out of his skin at the unexpected voice. His hands flew from his face and his upper torso got lodged into the prickly bush behind him. He luckily caught himself from sinking in further by digging his fingernails into the mushy soil beneath him. A low groan escaped him, his cheekbones and jaw slightly stinging from the pointy branches that combed against his skin.

Instead of staying stuck in the bushes and continue to feel sorry for his situation, he pried himself out of the shaggy plant's grasp and looked up at the little girl before him, hiding her giggles behind her hands.

Her hair, ripe and red as strawberries, flowed down her back like a river, circling around her little waist. She wore a simple white dress with floral patterns embroidered along the sleeves and trim of the skirt. Her cheeks were round in youth and her wide dark eyes were full of life. Arthur hadn't seen this child in a long time but was glad to see her mother's beauty slowly spreading itself among her peachy skin.

"Lady Elizabeth," he murmured to himself in realization as the child went on laughing.

She nodded her head, unable to properly answer due to her uncontrollable snickers. Arthur huffed and picked a few leaves out of his hair, mumbling, "You gave me quite a fright there."

"Yes, I did, and it was wonderful," Elizabeth added, giggling a little bit longer before she finally began to calm herself down. She exhaled loudly, clearing her lungs of any upcoming titters. "I am sorry though—for scaring you." Her red eyebrows crinkled in thought. "Speaking of which, who are you? Do you work for Father? Perhaps you're here for Edward?"

He paused for a moment before dusting off the dirt on the lower back of his blood red coat. Of course she wouldn't remember him; the last time he saw Elizabeth was shortly after her mother's execution when she was almost three years old. Even then, he only saw a glimpse of her being carried away by her caretaker and into another home, away from her father.

"We've met before," he explained, plucking another short green leaf from his blond fringe, "but I don't blame you for not remembering me. It was some time ago."

"We have?" She tilted her head to the side like a curious cat. "What is your name then?"

"Well, I have many names. My full name, or title rather, is The United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland." He sighed. "Most people call me England however."

Elizabeth gasped suddenly as if she just discovered the fountain of youth. "I know you! Well, I've heard of you. Kat[5] told me of an immortal man who works for my father."

He raised his eyebrows at her. "So she did? What else has your governess been teaching you?"

Elizabeth looked at the sky thoughtfully before smiling widely at him; he noticed a baby tooth missing on her bottom set of teeth near the back. "She taught me how to say this." She curtseyed lowly to him, stumbling a little in the process. "Bonjour, Monsieur! Comment allez-vous aujourd'hui?"[6]

Arthur automatically frowned as a certain blond man floated to his memory, his obnoxious laugh echoing throughout his mind. "Kat is teaching you French? Of all things? She should be teaching you useful things like mathematics and military tactics!"

Elizabeth laughed again, clearly having the time of her life. "Kat said you would get cranky if I said that! But I'm also learning Italian and Spanish."

"Oh, so she thought she was being funny? Is that why you're laughing? Well, the woman didn't have to grow up with the tosser of a nation so she shouldn't be teaching his absurd language to you."

She laughed again and he slumped his shoulders in disappointment. Not only did have to make sure that Edward grew into a fine king, but now he had to protect Elizabeth from impractical knowledges.

Elizabeth's laughter died down once more. "Do you have a normal name?"

Arthur looked up at her, still a little sour. "A normal name?"

"Yes. Like how my name is Elizabeth and how my brother's is Edward and my sister's is Mary? That kind of name."

He hesitated before responding. "My mortal name is Arthur Kirkland, but no one has called me that in a fairly long time. It's mainly used for close companions."

 _That's also something I haven't had in a long time._

"Arthur Kirkland?" She peered at the sky again as if tasting the name, to see if it was worth calling. "May I call you that?"

"Excuse me?"

"Well, surely it must be confusing for you. How can you tell when people are talking to you rather than to an island or a kingdom?"

He paused again and bit on the inside of his cheek to keep from grinning at her innocent remark. "If you so desire, you may call me Arthur."

She smiled. "Then you can call me Lizzy. Only Edward calls me that and I'm rather fond of the name and I think it's because he can't say Elizabeth yet—he's only two after all. But no one else calls to me like that; it's always Lady Elizabeth." Her voice and head lowered when she said, "I once heard one of the caretakers call me 'the little bastard.'" She looked back at him. "They said it in a low tone and I think they meant for me to not to hear it but I did. Do you know what a bastard is?"

He couldn't explain why he grew so offended so quickly. This rapid anger made him shift forward onto one knee so that he leveled with Elizabeth's short height. With a deadpanned expression and a serious tone, he told her, "A bastard isn't you. Whoever tells you such a thing is wrong and a liar. You shouldn't take that from anyone, including your father and your elder sister. _They're_ the ones who are the bastards."

It was clear that neither of them expected his response. While Arthur attempted to tame the boiling heat in his blood by glaring at a particular flyaway on Elizabeth's head of hair, Elizabeth stared at him like he suddenly grew another eyeball. He shouldn't have been surprised, but he was. Because her chances of receiving the throne were slim to none, most people treated her like the "lowly lady" they labeled her as. Except to Kat and Edward, she was a nonsense, a bother. She wasn't worth it.

Arthur remembered the conversation he shared with Anne six years ago:

 _Perhaps it's everyone else not giving her a chance to prove herself worthy._

 _She has already proven herself worthy. She has entered this world alive and unafraid._

Oh, how the lost queen was wrong. Elizabeth had entered a world with people already judging her, deciding her value. She wasn't given a chance to defy them and she hadn't lived the life of sovereigns she was entitled to. If things went on like this, she would never be free of this unfair status.

He knew what that felt like and he wasn't going to let a load of selfish, empty-headed monarchs get in the way of Elizabeth's potential success. The least he could do was teach her how to fend for herself, to stand up and conquer all who opposed her. (That was what he trained himself to do in the past, anyhow.)

"Elizabeth, you—" he started but was interrupted by a shrill voice exclaiming, "Lizzy! I found you!"

Both Arthur and Elizabeth turned their heads toward the calling coming from the entrance of the Hatfield House. A little boy—much smaller than Elizabeth—stood in the open doorway and was waving his tiny hand at her, giggling and smiling to himself. There was no doubt in Arthur's mind that this was the future King Edward VI.

"Ah, Edward!" As if on cue, Kat Ashely appeared at Edward's side and enveloped him in her arms, plucking him from the ground like he was a sparrow with a broken wing. "Elizabeth, what have I told you about playing hide and seek with Edward? Stay only inside!" Once she glanced over their way, her round eyes widened some more when she caught sight of Arthur.

"Oh, good afternoon, England. I didn't expect to see you here."

"I came for a visit; surely I'm allowed one of those," he replied as he stood up, brushing off any last few leaves or clumps of dirt from his attire. "There's no need to blame Elizabeth for her absence. We were just having a small chat."

Kat nodded her head once. "I see. As long as she wasn't causing any trouble…" He noticed her eyebrow raise at Elizabeth beside him, who was shifting her weight from foot to foot, a little uncomfortable.

"Well, one thing did throw me off guard." He then crossed his arms and peered at the governess. "What's this I hear about Elizabeth learning French?"

He heard Elizabeth stifle another laugh and saw Kat's thin lips spread into a wide smile, clearly amused. "My Lady troubled you by speaking French?"

"Woman, you are fully aware of anything that associates with that frog[7] instantly troubles me! I feel as though I must take Elizabeth into my own hands and teach her things that are truly important."

"Oh, don't get your knickers in a twist! I plan on Elizabeth becoming the most educated woman in all of England and that means she must learn things that you are not necessarily fond of." She smirked. "And she's doing very well might I add."

Arthur huffed, glancing down at Elizabeth. She smiled up at him and he noted how she was holding onto the back of his coat, something he hadn't felt nor noticed before. He hesitated and then grinned. "Perhaps you'd like to learn how to work a crossbow? Or how to swordfight?"

"No weapons allowed, England!" Kat called out to him. "Elizabeth is a lady, not a solider." She grabbed Edward's hand which had a hold on her hair and was directing it to his mouth. "Would you like to come in for tea while you're on your visit?"

"That sounds nice, thank you."

Leaving the door wide open, Kat grinned and walked deeper into the house with little Edward still in her arms who was twirling Kat's chocolate brown hair in his tiny hands (it appeared as though he were attempting to braid it, but it ended up looking like a tousled mess that would require help later on).

He felt Elizabeth suddenly tug on his fingers and he glanced down at her. He met her big sparkling eyes and wide smile, childhood innocence and curiosity shining through her features. "Kat makes the best tea! She always puts lots of sugar in mine and it tastes like magic. Come, Arthur! We can watch her prepare it!"

Something inside his chest shifted. The shifting wasn't obvious and painful like a kick to the stomach or a strike of fear to the heart, but it wasn't insignificant or something he could pass off as a simple case of heartburn. This unknown movement was something worth taking note of because, little did he know, this tiny spark would grow and bloom into something marvelous and extraordinary.

Ignoring the spark for now, Arthur blinked and smiled his crooked smile. "Is that so? Well, if that's the case, then we should get going."

Once the words passed his lips, Elizabeth giggled in happiness, tightened her grasp on his fingers, and then pulled him along into the Hatfield House.

* * *

[1] A "royal bastard" is a title given to a child that was born from a reigning monarch out of wedlock. Henry VIII declared Elizabeth and Mary as royal bastards for the sake of their gender and because of this he claimed they couldn't get the English throne.

[2] The Hatfield House was the place that Elizabeth stayed for majority of her childhood.

[3] Edward was Elizabeth's half-brother, son of Jane Seymour (Henry's third wife).

[4] What makes this my favorite joke in Hetalia is how unbelievably true it is. Henry, although Catholic, searched for help from the Protestants in order to become the head of the Church of England so he could divorce Catherine. Mary burned anyone at the stake who wasn't Catholic (this is where she got her nickname as "Bloody Mary") and later Elizabeth turned the church Protestant. For a long time being Catholic or Protestant was a problem for England.

[5] Katherine Ashley (or Kat as Elizabeth liked to call her) was the queen's governess and a close friend in later life.

[6] French translation: "Hello, sir. How are you today?"

[7] We all know that England calls France a frog all the time in the anime/manga, but this insult has actually been associated with the French for a long time. "Limey" is an insult that represented the British and "kraut" represented Germans. In fact, Elizabeth nicknamed her French suitor—François Hercule, Duke of Anjou—"my little frog" before rejecting his marriage proposal and sending him back to France. Whether she meant it as a cute nickname or as an insult in disguise, I don't really know.


	4. Chapter 4: Complicated

****WARNING: Human names will be used often in this chapter! (I googled the names of countries I didn't know and put down what the majority of fans agreed on, so oops if you're used to another name that I didn't use here.)**

 **I also found a lovely song to listen to while reading this fic (it doesn't necessarily fit with this chapter but with the whole thing). It's** ** _Moondust_** **by Jaymes Young (stripped version) and here's a link to it: watch?v=otpD-e5TaV0. I hope you enjoy it too.**

 **Anyway here we go again! (And thanks a million for reading this fic)****

 _30 March 2017_

"Look, Mom! The thing says we're forty-four percent German and fifty-two percent British!"

Arthur unintentionally eavesdropped on a particular conversation a mother and her two sons were having who were gathered around a computer provided by the museum, searching through their family history.[1] The boy who worked the system explained how their great-grandfather fled from Lichtenberg, Germany just a couple months before World War II began and how their grandparents had gotten married in Bath, England but moved to America in 1953 to raise their family.

The mother leaned forward to get a better look at the screen. "But forty-four plus fifty-two is ninety-six. What's the other four percent?"

The boy waved his hand dismissively. "It says Irish, but everyone says they're Irish, especially during St. Patrick's Day, so that doesn't matter." He turned around in his seat, excited. "But isn't that cool? We're British _and_ German. That explains so much." He looked up at his brother who was standing next to their mother. "The British part explains why Matt has had braces for five years."

Matt rubbed his jaw while his brother laughed obnoxiously. "Well, the German part explains why you wanna invade everyone in Call of Duty."

The mother laughed out loud while Arthur hid a chuckle behind his hand, pretending to be engrossed in a sign nearby.

Arthur now stood close to an information booth as he waited for the world meeting to begin. Kiku had walked off to grab a drink in the tiny café tucked into the corner of the lobby. Not only were tourists strolling around and observing what was being offered in the small building, but so were the other countries. He spotted Ludwig, Roderich, and Elizabeta circling a large photograph plastered on a wall that showed the construction of the immigrant station. Ivan and Natalia were seated on a wooden bench—the small girl was gripping Ivan's broad arm like a child would onto her mother's leg—while they stared up at their sibling Katyusha,[2] who was looking all around her like she was in the middle of downtown Tokyo. Heracles simply stood in the middle of the crowd as his eyes skimmed the space around him (Arthur couldn't tell if he was bored or secretly impressed).

Even after all these years, Arthur found it strange that the countries could still lose themselves in places they haven't been.

He discovered Kiku coming towards him from the corner of his eye with a small mug in his hand, steam radiating from it in small wisps. He faced him. "Please tell me the café is more appealing than the lobby," he said.

Kiku grinned as he took a wary sip of his drink. "You're very critical today, Mr. Britain. But the server was kind enough to steam the leaves for my green tea."[3] He looked up at Arthur. "Are you sure you don't want some?"

"I'm quite alright, thank you." He scratched his jaw obliviously before suddenly becoming mindful of Kiku's gaze on his left hand. He stuffed his hand into his pocket again, a little irritated.

Kiku sighed into his cup and started, "Arthur, maybe you should—"

"This is not a topic for discussion, Kiku," he snapped at him, voice low and clearly annoyed. He didn't mean to bite back so harshly at his good friend, but he tended to do just that whenever he was annoyed in the slightest. He stepped back and exhaled. "I'm sorry, it's just..." He glanced at the crowd before him. "I don't feel comfortable talking about it."

A small and awkward silence swam over them before Kiku spoke up again: "I can relate to what you're feeling, to some extent anyway. There were people from my country that did everything they could for me, that died for me, and I still miss and think about them."[4] He shrugged. "Although I have never fallen in love with a human before."

For some reason, Arthur found this surprising. "You haven't?"

"No." He looked up at him curiously, as if wondering why Arthur found that so shocking. "I have loved my people, but none of it was romantic. I try my best to stay away from that." He sipped his tea and then added, "It's hurts to love someone, especially in our position."

Arthur had to agree with that. When an immortal being begins to care for a very mortal one, it is guaranteed that pain and sorrow would follow.

He knew that too when he began to care for Elizabeth back then. Yet he still went on with it, encouraged it even.

What a stupid but wonderful thing to do.

"But perhaps you can speak to someone who lost somebody they loved," Kiku suggested. "Conversing with them might make you feel better."

Arthur groaned lowly. "That might be the most absurd idea I've heard come out of your mouth."

Kiku snickered. "I'm serious; it does help sometimes. I enjoy speaking with Mr. Greece and Mr. Turkey and…Miss Taiwan."

Arthur caught Kiku glance over at a certain country on the other side of the lobby. Yao Wang, Yong Soo Im, and Mei Xiao were circling each other, Yao trying to hold back Yong from knocking any artifacts over while Mei attempted to grab their attention by pointing and gawking at things all around the room. Mei had met Kiku's gaze and then she smiled and waved wildly at him, to which he responded with a shy grin and a simple lift of his hand.

The Englishman smirked and murmured, "Japan, you ignorant hypocrite."

Kiku looked back at him, eyes wide. "What?"

"Oh, you've never fallen in love before, haven't you? You've been single and lonely for how many centuries?"

The Japanese man frowned, blushing vividly as he drank from his steaming mug. "I said I haven't fallen in love with a _human._ And besides, it is also risky to romantically love another country. Mr. Austria and Miss Hungary know that better than anyone else."[5]

"So you are admitting that you have romantic feelings for Taiwan?" That statement sounded very childish and teasing to Arthur, but the idea of Kiku falling for another Asian country was so unexpected that he had to poke fun at him.

Kiku glared from the corner of his eye. "As I was saying," he started, clearly trying to push the current subject away, "you should talk to someone about your situation like maybe—"

"Austria and Hungary? Perhaps Taiwan for your sake?"

Plainly aggravated now, Kiku muttered, "Like Mr. France."

The joking smile was wiped off from his face. "I take it back. _That_ is the most absurd idea I've heard come out of your mouth."

Kiku gestured to the said man who was standing in a corner while chatting with Antonio. "The mortals call him 'the country of love' for a reason. Maybe he can help you overcome your loss."

Arthur refrained from gagging aloud. "Truthfully, I'd rather die than speak to him about my problems. He'd probably enjoy my sorrow and rub it in my face like the bastard he is. He wouldn't understand."

Kiku looked up at him, his expression a mixture of confusion and sarcasm. "It is true that you've known Mr. France longer than I have but, unless I have my history wrong, he's lost someone very special to him."

Arthur raised an eyebrow and bore a frown. "You mean Prussia? His death was a surprise to everyone."[6]

He shook his head. "Mr. Prussia's loss saddened a lot of countries like Mr. France, Mr. Spain, and Mr. Germany, but he wasn't the one I was talking about. Mr. France once loved a human too."

Arthur tried to remember who in history Francis had strong feelings for, but quickly gave up with the assumption that he probably loved everyone he set his eyes on before. _He just can't keep it in his trousers, can he?_ he thought to himself.

When it was clear that Arthur didn't know who it was, Kiku provided him the answer: "It was Joan of Arc, wasn't it?"

He blinked. That name sounded familiar. Where did it come from? He bit the inside of his cheek as he pondered, searching through history. It hit him.

"Wait." He turned to Kiku. "Was she the one who claimed to hear God's voice during the Hundred Years War? That was almost six hundred years ago. He still hasn't let that go?"

Kiku shrugged and sipped his tea again. "Elizabeth's death was four hundred and you haven't gotten over it."

The comment was like a stab to the chest; he could've doubled over in pain at the suddenness and effectiveness of it all. He stared at him with wide eyes and an ajar mouth, getting the message across that Kiku seriously wounded him.

He got the message and sighed heavily. "I'm sorry. That was uncalled for. But…it is true. Even though you and Mr. France are completely different in character, you both share the loss of someone human and meaningful."

Arthur, for once, was at a loss for words, but he knew he had to say something, anything. _Quick, say Elizabeth was more to you than Joan was to France. That you've suffered more than he has. That nothing, especially Kiku's advice, could make you move on._

But he wasn't sure if any of those things were true.

Despite this, he opened his mouth to speak, but his opportunity was taken away by the loud voice of Alfred running into the lobby: "It's okay! I'm here, I'm here everyone!"

Almost every person in the room turned toward the young country in confusion or interest. Alfred pushed his glasses further up his nose, adjusting his grey jacket, and then waved at all the tourists. "Sorry, guys! Go back to what you were doing. Enjoy your time here at Ellis Island!"

Slowly the mortals began to do as he said. Alfred lightly jogged over to the information booth, to where Arthur and Kiku were standing close by. He leaned over the counter, a bit out of breath, as he asked the woman working behind the register, "Hey, Rachel. What's up?"

The woman, Rachel, nodded her head. "Everything's fine. The conference room is ready to go for your meeting today and I think everyone is here."

Alfred gave her a thumbs-up. "Sweet. Let's start rounding up the troops then."

As soon as Rachel left her position at the counter and began walking around, telling the countries to follow her into the next room, Alfred turned to his left and noticed Arthur and Kiku. "Oh, hey there. Sorry to keep you guys waiting. The boss was just reminding me what I should and should not say during the meeting." He glanced at the ceiling, a little confused. "Not sure if I was supposed to mention that or not."

"Ohayo, Mr. America." Kiku bowed his head. "I must admit: this museum is very impressive. Very informative as well. Also the server in the café prepared my drink very professionally."

"Oh, was it Tyler? Yeah, the dude can make anything! He's great." He faced Arthur. "What's up, England? Why the long face?"

"I-It's nothing." He rubbed at his eyes, trying to get himself under control. "You're nearly a half hour late. I'm getting tired of waiting for your lazy arse to get to a world meeting that _you're_ leading."

Alfred laughed and patted Arthur's shoulder. "Ah, there's the old bitter England I know. You were kinda freaking me out, you know. It looked like you actually had feelings for a moment." He stepped back and threw his arm behind him, toward two large wooden doors. "The meeting's right this way, ladies and gents!"

As Alfred lead the way, as the countries shuffled toward the doors, and as the world continued to move forward, Arthur trailed behind and flung his mind back in time once again, his thumb twirling the gold ring in his pocket.

* * *

[1] The Ellis Island Museum provides records of people from all over the world who entered the immigrant station back while it was still in business. It'll give you photographs, signatures, paperwork, and any other information it can find.

[2] I believe this is the human name for Ukraine but please correct me if I'm wrong.

[3] Fun fact! Green tea is the most popular tea globally; camellia leaves are picked, dried, and then heat-treated to help prepare this drink. The Japanese tend to steam the leaves which creates a brighter green shade to the tea.

[4] Just like every other country in the world, Japan had great historical figures like Prince Shotoku (who helped create Japan's first constitution, bring Chinese culture to Japan, and spread Buddhism around the country) and Sakamoto Ryoma (who helped overthrow the Tokugawa government through progressive thinking and romanticism).

[5] The countries Austria and Hungary become one in 1867 but fell during World War I in 1917; they were one country for only 50 years.

[6] I hate to be that person but it's true: Prussia is no longer a country. Prussia lost a lot of its power during the German Revolution in 1918, but its formal fall wouldn't come until 1947 when the Allies Control Council (Russia, America, and England) divided its territory into smaller parts after World War II.


	5. I Should've

****WARNING: Sexual abuse is a major theme in this chapter. This is a part of history so I found it necessary to add to the story and did my best to portray Elizabeth and Arthur's reaction to this. I do not mean to offend anyone and I'm terribly sorry if I do.**

 **Thank you all again for continuing to read this fanfiction of mine! Your views, comments, kudos, and favorites keep me going and I can't wait to see you all in the next chapter!****

 _20 March 1549_

It took two strikes of the axe to fully behead Thomas Seymour.[1]

Arthur was standing in his usual spot behind the wooden platform with the executioner's back towards him and the audience facing him. He didn't actually watch the decapitation (he'd seen more than enough to last a lifetime) but he did hear the strangled grunt of Thomas when the dull axe hit his neck the first time and then the sound of his head dropping into the woven basket below the second time. His eyes were glued to the set of footprints in the mud beside him, the impressions made by Thomas himself as he was ushered onto the platform a few moments ago.

The court declared him guilty of treason and Arthur couldn't agree more. The bastard was found in eleven-year-old King Edward's chamber in the middle of the night with a bloody pistol in his hand! When Arthur arrived at the scene, Thomas was wrestled out of the room while little Edward was sitting upon the floor with his shot and bleeding dog at his feet, shocked tears sliding down his face. A servant came along and wrapped her arms around the boy in attempt to comfort him as Arthur whirled back around and stormed after Thomas, demanding to know what just happened.

After many weeks of trial and interrogation, it was revealed that Thomas was attempting to kidnap the young king and to become Lord Protector.[2] Obviously the court found this disturbing and began to question his marriage to the late Katherine Parr, wondering if he married her for the sake of gaining power. Arthur found these charges distressing as well, but surprisingly not as much as one of the other treacheries he was sentenced with.

There was a rumor that Thomas had induced rather inappropriate behavior around fifteen-year-old Lady Elizabeth and wanted to marry her off.

That was why Arthur was glaring at Thomas's footprints now with such heated anger that he could feel his fists slightly tremble. Not only was the man a power-hungry fool that attempted to abduct a small king from his own bedroom, but he was a perverted animal as well. Arthur was in the interrogation room with Sir Robert Tyrwhitt[3] when he questioned Elizabeth. He had stood behind the old man as he asked the young lady hard and sometimes intimidating inquires. He was worried for her; he thought she would slip and stumble, panic and cry, under the harsh glare of Robert.

She had proved him wrong.

She never broke her calm composure as she responded with logical answers. Her eyes remained focused on Robert and Arthur sensed him getting frustrated with Elizabeth's intelligence for he wasn't getting the confession or evidence he needed. Although he was concerned with Elizabeth's mysterious relationship with Thomas, he couldn't help but to feel a little proud of her. _I'm glad to see that Kat's teachings are becoming useful, young Elizabeth._

In the end, the only thing Elizabeth admitted that there was indeed gossip circling the idea of Thomas marrying her and how he asked about her finances and estates.

And now Thomas's head was in the bottom of a worn-out and blood-stained woven basket.

Arthur's eyes finally lifted from the ground and watched the crowd shake their heads and mumble under their breaths at the pathetic sight before them. The audience was small and consisted mainly of court members, royal servants, and a priest. He skimmed over them quickly, their expressions all the same: they contained nothing but hatred. Many turned to go and he was about to do so as well when he caught a familiar girl standing to the far left.

Elizabeth was staring up at the head of Thomas Seymour which the executioner held up for all to see. Though she stood up straight and had her chin leveled with her jaw, she was looking at dead Thomas with a sorrowful look in her eyes. Her light eyebrows were slightly upturned and a tiny frown creased her lips. She stared while everyone else departed and only began to move when an unknown servant—probably the temporary replacement for Kat[4]—gently touched her shoulder and urged her to go back home.

That's when Arthur's feet started to move.

"Excuse me!" he called out to the pair. Both girls stopped and turned. The servant widened her eyes at the sight of him but Elizabeth didn't change hers. In fact, it seemed like she was expecting him.

"Sir England?" said the servant; he couldn't tell if she looked concerned or just surprised. "Is there something wrong?"

"Not anymore." He curved his head to the side as a way of gesturing to Thomas. "You can report yourself to other duties; I can escort Lady Elizabeth to Hatfield House."

He could feel Elizabeth's steady look remain on him as the servant stumbled back and glanced between the two. "Oh, um…" she stuttered, a tint of pink blooming to her cheeks in embarrassment. "Th-That's quite alright. I am to watch after the Lady until Katherine Ashley's release."

"I understand but I have taken over that responsibility now. You may report this to your superiors."

She hesitated before curtseying quickly. "Yes, sir." And then she hurried off.

There was a short and awkward pause as Arthur watched the servant walk away and as Elizabeth stared unblinkingly at him. He faced her once more and stared at her with the same neutral expression before reaching his hand in front of him, leading her the way. "Shall we go then?"

The tiniest of smiles shaped her thin lips. "So, you are to be my governess for now?" she asked sarcastically as she strolled on ahead.

He smiled back. "Something of the sort."

"Good," she replied, and he felt that small but acquainted spark in his chest, still unsure of what it meant.

They walked in silence for a while, just long enough so that when Arthur looked around him, there weren't any persons in sight. They were strolling on a dirt path and were surrounded by tall slender trees that were beginning to grow green leaves and small red apples. Birds chirped happily in the morning sky and the faint outline of the Hatfield House could be spotted in the far distance. It was the first time Arthur felt somewhat content and at peace in a long time, but he knew it was to be short-lived for he had to ask Elizabeth the unavoidable.

"How do you feel?" he enquired quietly, studying her profile. He hadn't seen her in a month (most of his time was spent with King Edward) and he felt as though she had physically changed since the last time he saw her. Her nose and chin were sharper, her brown eyes were more aware of happenings around her, her long red hair contained a much richer color. She was growing older, more mature, each and every day.

She was growing more beautiful each and every day.

She didn't look back at him. "What about?"

"About…" He shrugged. "About everything, anything. What's on your mind?"

Her knowledgeable eyes glanced up at him. "You're concerned with the rumor about Thomas and me, are you not?"[5]

He slowed to a stop and so did Elizabeth, a couple meters ahead of him. He stood there with his hands in his coat pockets and watched her red hair flow along with the dancing wind. The thought of Thomas's hands on Elizabeth made an all-too-familiar angry knot twist tightly in his chest and he had to bite down on the inside of his cheek to keep from blurting any fiery words out. But Elizabeth looked so calm. How could that be? Wasn't she angry or disturbed by Thomas's actions? The man was twenty-five years older than she and he had a wife and was said to be sneaking into Elizabeth's chamber at night! How could she not say anything?

Trying his absolute best to not become irritated, Arthur calmly asked, "Elizabeth, did he touch you without your consent?"

As she slowly drifted her gaze away from him, a sign that she wasn't going to be straight with him, he went on: "Thomas is dead now. The trial is over. Kat will return to you soon. You weren't convicted of anything and honestly, I'm a little surprised but greatly impressed by your ability to answer tough questions quickly and with reason. I'm proud of you, Elizabeth, and you should be too. But I need you to tell me what really happened." His voice rose an octave toward the end of his dialogue and he cleared his throat, reminding himself to keep quiet, to keep calm. "Please, Elizabeth."

"Why are you concerning yourself with my affairs?" Elizabeth replied, shooting him a sharp look from the side. "I'm not your business. You should be helping my brother, teaching him how to be king. You and I hardly see each other anyway."

"You _are_ my business, Elizabeth! You are a part of this kingdom, a part of the royal family. Thomas betrayed me and he betrayed you. His former affairs are also my business and I _need_ to know if you're okay."

"But why do you care? Haven't you heard? I'm the Tudor's royal bastard. I shouldn't have been born in the first place—"

 _"_ _I said—!"_ Arthur placed his forehead in his palm and took a long and deep breath, struggling to loosen that knot in his chest. Quieter this time, he said, "I told you that you aren't a bastard. You have an opinion, a choice, and a life just like everyone else. I told you that whoever says you are a bastard is wrong and a liar." He looked at her straight in the eye. "Do you not believe me? Don't you have any self-respect?"

Elizabeth became silent again. She just stared at him like he was a puzzle, something to decode or figure out. He stared back at her as he felt the wind fly pass them both, her hair flowing and his coat flapping. "Please tell me what happened," he tried again.

She slowly blinked and then observed the area around them as if searching for any living soul that could be hiding behind a tree or a bush, listening to their conversation. When she found nothing, she gazed at her folded hands for a long time. Arthur believed that she wasn't going to reveal anything. _She's very stubborn, just like her father._ He opened his mouth to ask her again but she beat him to it: "If I tell you, will you promise not to tell anybody?"

He furrowed his eyebrows as she glanced up at him. "If I tell, you can't pass this information on to anybody. Not to Sir Robert, not to Kat, not to Edward. No one. What I have to say is only between you and me and the dead."

He hesitated. It probably wouldn't make a difference if he told anybody either way. Thomas was dead now—he received the ultimate punishment. Any new information for the court would be useless now.

He nodded once. "I won't tell anyone."

Elizabeth's shoulders dropped a little, hopefully in relief. She glanced to the side as she spoke, exhaling audibly before doing so. "I never wanted Thomas dead in the first place; that's why I spoke very little during my interrogation. I know what he did was wrong—trying to kidnap my poor brother that is—but I didn't want him dead, even then. I've already seen too many people die under my father's command and I don't want to see anyone else go." She momentarily glanced up at him, shaking her head a little. "I don't know how you can stand it, after seeing thousands of people die throughout your lifetime."

He remained silent, knowing her last remark was rhetorical, and let her continue.

"But…he did make me feel uncomfortable, at the very least. When Thomas first moved into Chelsea Manor[6], I started to receive early morning visits from him in my chamber. The both of us were still in our nightgowns during these visits and he…" Elizabeth stopped, pursed her lips, breathed deeply, and then went on: "…he would approach my bedside and…and…"

She squeezed her eyes shut and inhaled loudly as if preparing to hold her breath for a lengthy period of time, but she once again surprised Arthur by releasing it all in a powerful shout:

"And he tried to steal my authority, my soul!" She gritted her teeth together and pounded her fists against her puffy dress, creating a muffled slapping noise. "The nerve of the man! When he couldn't get to my brother, he aimed his sights on me. He tried to take my hand in marriage but apparently my refusal[7] wasn't enough for him. So he attempted to come at me in the early mornings of my chamber, standing far too close and grabbing my arse whenever he damn well pleased. The…the sorry disgrace of a human being!"

Elizabeth angrily paced back and forth while Arthur just stood there like an idiot, occasionally blinking in confusion. _Well, that was unexpected._ He thought she would begin crying with those tight lips and deep breaths but he had greatly mistaken her fury for sorrow. His eyes followed her march in front of him, listening to her huffed ranting and watching her features twitch in annoyance.

"To hell with him! How dare he do such a thing not only to me but to my dear brother! He's only a little older than a decade and he's already been exposed to such a betrayal. He mustn't see the things I've seen, the deaths and losses I've had to endure. He must grow up to be a powerful king, my little Edward. That is why he can't know of this, Arthur. He can't know what his uncle did to me and how—and how weak I was to defend myself. I'm his elder sister, I must set an example, I—I have to be strong. I must…"

He caught her bottom lip curl back and tremble like a raving lion and shiny tears brim at the corners of her eyes. He heard her voice crack at the words "I must" and her mad pacing began to slow down. "I—I should've done…something," she muttered out bitterly, no longer speaking to him.

Arthur reached out before he could stop himself.

Elizabeth began to cry angry tears once he wrapped his arms around her protectively, her face buried into the high collar of his coat, her small body hiccupping with each stifled sob. He stared fixedly at the crumbly dirt road beneath them, trying to decide what to do. How do you stop one from crying? He remembered when he first held Elizabeth as a newborn; he had carried her around the room and mumbled on about the rain. But that wouldn't work now, could it? She was no longer a mindless child; she was a young woman, trying to find her place in the world. So how was he to comfort her now?

 _I'm so stupid,_ he thought to himself as warmth spread across his face in embarrassment. _I'm such an idiot that I don't even know how to comfort the only person in this bloody kingdom who actually needs it, who deserves it. I don't know how to do this…_

He stiffly began running a hand through her long hair, his fingers getting tangled in her thick red locks. Elizabeth hushed down some but he felt her fists grip the fabric of his coat, still not completely calm. He sighed and then started his own rambling: "It's alright to get angry now and then, but never at yourself. You did nothing wrong and besides, you have every right to be upset at what has happened. I probably get angry too much of the time and usually things end up getting worse because of it. Once when I was young—when I was first starting out as a country—I had stabbed my elder brother, Scotland, because he told me I needed to work on my archery skills." He slipped in a tiny smirk at the memory. "I still don't regret that to this day."

Elizabeth burst out laughing, the sound muffled against his heavy coat. He felt her shake in laughter and he didn't know how to feel about it; should he be relieved that she was no longer crying or amused because she thought him stabbing Allister was funny?

"You're terrible at comforting people, Arthur," he heard her say into his shoulder.

He frowned and exhaled sharply. "At least I tried to do something instead of stand there and do nothing," he defended himself as he drew Elizabeth away by her shoulders. He looked down at her. She had on a small but pleasant smile upon her face and even though her eyes were a bit red and glossy due to her weeping, she still appeared beautiful.

She chuckled and wiped at her face, clearing any tear trails on her cheeks. "Well, I appreciate your thoughtfulness anyhow."

He paused. "Are you alright?"

She glanced at his chest, probably staring at the teardrops she left on his collar. She slowly nodded in response. "I will be. It's just…" She tucked a strand of her wavy hair behind her ear in thought. "I…now realize of how much power I'm entitled to and what people will do to me in order to get to it."

He nodded back, recalling the times throughout history of what horrible things people would do just to achieve the crown—or to keep it.

"But honestly, I don't think I'll marry—ever."

He blinked a few times, the statement sinking into his brain as he began to fully realize what she just said. "Wait, never marry? But what if you become queen? You'll need a king by your side, you—"

"I wouldn't _need_ a man by my side to help rule a country. I could do it by myself. And besides, I've seen too many marriages fail under my father's rule and Thomas certainly didn't help with that. No one is taking it seriously; they treat marriage like it's a stepping stone to power and fame. So…maybe it's better to stay away from that subject entirely and save myself from further treachery and heartbreak."

He could see her point but it was very strange that she was persistent about backing away from tradition, from another and probably just-as-helpful source of power. He shook his head slowly, still muddled. "But it'll be useful to have someone else by your side during your reign. It could also be terribly lonely if you ruled by yourself."

One of her eyebrows curved upward. "Why are you concerned with my decision? Do you wish to marry me, Arthur?"

He knew it was a sarcastic question but he still felt his cheeks heat up at the mocking suggestion. "Absolutely not. I would never associate myself with that sort of thing."

"Then you should understand my conclusion just fine."

"Elizabeth, I am immortal. A lifetime of marriage for a mortal is only a few years for me."

She grinned. "Good, because that heartbreak would be mighty difficult for you to recover from."

He rolled his eyes and she giggled. "Let's just go to Hatfield," he murmured as he led her down the pathway.

Once Arthur dropped Elizabeth off at Hatfield House, he roamed around aimlessly and soon found himself in the woods not far from the manor. He knew he should've been at the castle with Edward or back at court to assist in wrapping up Thomas's case, but he didn't want to do either of those things right now. He just wanted to be alone for a little while.

He stood and looked around him, at the tall slender trees crowding him like an angry mob. He felt his shoulders tense up and his breathing pattern become hefty. He no longer saw the trees as trees but instead as the source of all his problems, all his anger. His eyes closed and his mind replayed Elizabeth's revelation of Thomas's abuse upon her: he once again heard her frustrated cries and her trembling fists and her cracking voice when she uttered "I should've done something."

Finally, for the first time in quite a while, he snapped.

He unleashed his sword from his hip that he carried around majority of the time and started waving it all around him. He yelled in pure rage as he sliced at the tree branches, cut at the overflowing grass below him, and chipped off large chunks of bark from the trees' trunks. He became blind and soon enough he wouldn't be able to tell the difference if he hit a tree or a human being. But he kept going. He had to release all this flaming fury that started deep in his stomach and ended up as a burning sensation his throat. He kept on shouting and swinging his sword until his arms got tired and sweat began beaded along his hairline.

With a final short scream, he drove the tip of his sword into the ground and fell on his knees, leaning forward. He huffed and puffed and stared at the muddy floor beneath him. From the corner of his eye, he caught his vague reflection on the blade—his dark eyebrows were lowered and his green eyes were bright with wrath and his tight grimace could be mistaken for a wolf's. His grip squeezed the sword's handle as he spat into the ground, "I should've killed you myself, you fucking bastard." 

* * *

[1] Thomas Seymour was Elizabeth's stepfather who married Katherine Parr (Henry's sixth wife) when the king passed away. This chapter will explain why Thomas was executed.

[2] Edward Seymour, Thomas's brother, was already Lord Protector (which meant he was helping King Edward make kingly decisions). Thomas was power hungry and literally tried anything to get to the top of the royal English status.

[3] Sir Robert Tyrwhitt was the man in charge of interrogating Elizabeth when Thomas was imprisoned. He was confident that he could break Elizabeth and get some confessions out of her but she was way too smart and witty for him and wasn't charged with anything for lack of evidence.

[4] Kat was also arrested at the time of Thomas's and was placed in the Tower of London. Most of Elizabeth's personal servants were arrested and questioned for the trial and were released shortly after Thomas's execution.

[5] Although the facts that surround Thomas's relationship with Elizabeth and her feelings towards it are still a bit hazy, it was clear that Thomas committed what we call today sexual abuse upon her. This included lying down in the same bed with her and slapping her on her behind, all when she was dressed in nothing but a loose nightgown.

[6] Chelsea Manor is located in London and was one of the many homes Elizabeth lived in during her teenage years. She was already living there with her stepmother, Katherine Parr (who married Henry first but then quickly married Thomas shortly after he died), before Thomas decided to move in.

[7] Shortly after Henry died, Thomas sent a letter to Elizabeth and asked her to marry him. She wrote back, politely declining by saying she was far too young (only 13) and she was to be in mourning for her father. A couple months later, Thomas married Katherine Parr.


	6. What's Your Worth?

****I'll probably say this for every chapter but THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR READING THIS FIC! I'm having such a great time writing and I'm glad to see you guys are enjoying it as well. I'm sorry though if I can't get future chapters out on time; college is back in session so I'll need to find time to write (which may be very limited) but don't you worry—I'll try my best to reach out to you guys to let you know on future updates. No way am I ever giving up on England and Elizabeth!** **?** ******

 _30 March 2017_

All countries shuffled into the large conference room that was to hold the world meeting and they all looked around them just like they did back in the lobby. In the middle of it all sat a long wooden table with wheeled chairs lining the length of it and an additional round table was positioned at the far-right end, more chairs circling it. A projector suspended from the ceiling and was aimed at the wall behind the spherical table which was where a whiteboard was hung.

But it certainly wasn't the typical office supplies that caught everyone's attention—it was the huge stacks of written records that occupied each counter that surrounded the room, pushed against the beige walls disorderly to create space for the much-needed tables and chairs.

Arthur glimpsed at his immediate right. There stood a high pile of old papers upon a desk with black cording tied around it all and a yellow post-it note stuck on the top with the word SPAIN scribbled across it.

 _These must be all the written passports that the Americans prepared for each settler that came to the island,_ he guessed, scanning down the row while the countries around him searched for their own marked piles.[1] He caught Kiku interestedly flipping through his papers and heard Lovino Vargas mutter under his breath, "Oh yeah, I remember this guy—he was an asshole." Arthur frankly wasn't interested in discovering his former citizens' records; while everyone else found it fascinating or memorable, he found it sad and perhaps a little defeating.

"Ah, hola, Inglaterra. Qué pasa con la cara larga?"[2]

He turned at the mention of his Spanish name. He caught sight of the tall brunet nation saunter over, his large green eyes peering at him curiously. "You look mighty tired, old friend. Have you gotten any sleep lately?"

Arthur rolled his eyes slightly and combed his fingers through his hair, trying to arrange it around so that it could shield his face somewhat from prying judgements. "I'm fine, Spain. Have you gotten your colossal nose out of people's businesses yet?"

Antonio blinked in surprise before bursting into laughter. "Now there's the England I know." He glanced beside him. "Oh, hey, you found my pile of records! How neat." He began flipping through the wrinkled papers with a wide smile across his face and a fluctuating tone to his voice as he went on and on about the names he recognized among the identifications. Arthur didn't pay him much attention as he was distracted with protecting his wedding ring from Antonio's wandering eyes.

 _He would know about Elizabeth more than anyone else,_ he thought grudgingly.[3]

He eventually settled on switching his briefcase to his right hand and stick his left into his jacket pocket when Antonio spoke his name again: "Oh, England! I think I saw yours over by Germany's. The stack was so high, I thought I was looking up at Russia for a moment." He chuckled at his own joke while Arthur remained solemn.

His eyes flicked to the giant German nation standing alone by the wall opposite them, scanning through his records. A sudden frown creased his lips once he spotted the mountainous pile of documents placed next to Ludwig; it came to the middle of his chest which meant that it came to just below Arthur's shoulders.

"What the bloody…" he trailed off, stepping closer to the papers in mild shock.

"I know," Antonio replied as he watched him walk over. "That was my reaction, amigo."

Arthur merely gawked at all the handwritten passports. Without thinking, he reached out and carefully brushed his fingers against the curled edges of the old papers as if he had to physically touch it to convince himself that it was all there, that it was real. His hand hovered slightly over his mouth as he whispered against it, "Why were my people leaving me?"

He thought no one heard him but Ludwig, without glancing up from his skimming process, answered for him, "Because America had something that we didn't have: freedom and strength."

Arthur glanced up at Ludwig's pile which was remarkably higher than his. He shook his head slightly and then turned to him. "Freedom and strength? You're starting to sound like him."

Ludwig shrugged his board shoulders. "It's true—to some degree, at least. Can't you see the somewhat safe haven the mortals saw during both World Wars?"

He furrowed his eyebrows. "You…America wasn't….fuck." He glared at their enormous stacks and sighed lowly. "I get the sense of security and the promising look of 'freedom' but that doesn't mean that cities like London and Berlin are bad places to be."

He heard Ludwig snort quietly in amusement. "For once, I actually agree with you, England."

"Dudes, if you're freaking out about those stacks, you should see the ones I have in the back."

Ludwig and Arthur peeked at Alfred who was going around the large conference table, placing a small packet of papers at each seat. He was looking at them with a great smile on his lips and a gleam of delight in his eyes. He pointed to their stacks. "Those are just the records of when Ellis Island was officially in business. I have more early passports from you guys before this place was even an idea.[4] Wanna see them?"

"No," Ludwig and Arthur answered in unison.

Alfred snorted and went back to handing out papers. Ludwig huffed and stepped away from his stack and strolled over to chat with Roderich. Arthur peered at the small post-it note on the top of his pile, at the sloppy handwritten ENGLAND that someone didn't have the time to carefully print out.

He unstuck the note from the first page and read the name of one former English citizen. _Agatha Edwards,_ he read. _Born on May 14_ _th_ _, 1894 in Cambridge, England and came to America on September 7_ _th_ _, 1918. Was pregnant at the time and arrived with her newly-wedded husband, Noah Edwards. Probably hoping to start their family in a safe and welcoming environment in America._

He remembered those two young boys from earlier and their family history before flipping the page and reading a new name. _Oliver Harris, born on October 1_ _st_ _, 1892 in Manchester, England and came to America on June 10_ _th_ _, 1893. Arrived with his single mother, Abigail Harris. Poor thing. He didn't even get a chance to experience life in my land before moving here._

He flipped another. _George Green, from Birmingham, England. Came to America in 1924. Did he want that sweet, rich life that everyone seemed to have in America at the time? You dumbass. I was rich and still had an empire back then._ _ **[5]**_

 _Jack Johnson, born in Oxford, England. Came to America._

 _Lily White. Born in England. Came to America._

 _Isabella Smith._

 _Harry Davis._

 _Charlie Taylor._

 _Born in England, born in England, born in England._

 _They all came to America._

Arthur released his hold on the papers and rubbed his forehead. So many of his people left him. Why was that? Yes, there were some hardships he had to deal with over a hundred years ago but it was mainly the World Wars that took a big chunk out of his wealth and durability. Life had been good for his citizens, right? He gave them everything he had—he always did and always will. So why were so many leaving him? Wasn't he worth it?

He was aware of the cool piece of metal resting against his hairline and it reminded him of Elizabeth's full lips gently pressing into his hair; it was eerie at how well he could remember the feeling. But instead of the usual reassuring wave he felt once that pair of lips touched him, now he felt even more distressed than before.

 _God, why is everything I come across today reminding me of the fact that you're gone?_

"Alright, folks!" A loud clap erupted the chatter echoing around the room. "Let's get this show on the road! Everyone take your seats, please."

Arthur, for once, was glad for Alfred's interruption and spun around quickly and headed for the long table. He took the first seat he could find which ended up being between Matthew Williams and Toris Laurinaitis. He set out his own papers and notes, gripped his ballpoint pen tightly in his hand, and tried to forget about the 16th century for just an hour or two as Alfred gestured to the screen behind him.

But, of course, that didn't work.

* * *

[1] The written records of Ellis Island are similar to how a driver's license tells personal information: full names, date of birth, where immigrants came from, etc. They also stated if the immigrant had any health concerns like heart disease, mental instability, or pregnancy. In total, around 15 million immigrants came through Ellis Island's immigrant inspection station and majority of these personal records are still here today.

[2] Spanish translation: "Ah, hello, England. What's up with the long face?"

[3] The Spanish Armada anyone? (they'll come to you in a few more chapters ? )

[4] In the mid to late 1800s, many of America's immigrants came from Germany, Ireland, or England. Most moved because of poverty, religious practice, or lack of resources (examples like Ireland's widespread famine in the 1840s and the failed revolution of Germany in 1848).

[5] Most of the world had an economic growth during the 1920s (especially in America) after World War I ended. In North America, it's referred to as the "Roaring 20s" while in Europe it's called the "Golden Age 20s" (and yes, Elizabeth's reign was referred to as the "Golden Age" in England). The British Empire fell after World War II.


	7. The Tower

_8 May 1554_

His feet moved rapidly as he walked through the prison even though he knew it wouldn't take long to arrive at his destination. Each step he took echoed down the wide brick halls, alerting any upcoming prisoners or guards that he was on his way. He was aware of the fixedly stares of the tower's guards on him but he kept his own focused aim straight ahead, not giving them any sort of form of acknowledgement. He also spotted a couple prisoners wandering the halls near him but they quickly jumped out of the way when they noticed how much infuriation and effort he put into each stride. He also didn't pay any attention to them.

His face was already set into his infamous and seemingly natural scowl when he turned a corner and it only grew when he saw a short guard on the far right, shielding a door. Elizabeth's door.[1]

At the sound of Arthur hastily approaching, the guard sighed heavily and turned slightly to face him. "Back again, Sir England?"

"Don't play dumb," he snapped, coming to a swift halt. "I've been coming here nearly every day and that's all your hollow brain can think of to say?"

The guard—Arthur didn't care to remember his name—looked at him with a rather bored expression which only fueled his anger even more. "You know I'm just doing the job that Henry[2] gave me, right?"

"Bedingfield doesn't know what he's doing; he hasn't even caught a glimpse of the state Lady Elizabeth is in! Any person with sympathy in their soul would know that placing an ill and innocent woman in this daunting prison is completely wrong and unfair!"

The guard said nothing but only stepped to the side, allowing Arthur entry to the large, wooden door. "Well, lucky for you, Lady Elizabeth hasn't left her room all day—even refused some of her servants—so you don't have to travel far to search for her. I'm sure she's been waiting for you."[3]

He glared deathly at him and huffed under his breath. When his heated stare shifted to the metal doorknob and his hand reached out to grab a hold of it, the memory of Elizabeth being taken to this bloody prison hit his brain like a sharp axe to the head.

It rained heavily that day and because of this, they were to take her through Traitor's Gate,[4] the same entry where all prisoners were to pass under. The thought that this would send Elizabeth's nerves flying didn't cross his mind and it was too late to tame them now.

She walked stiffly with two male escorts by her sides, one of them being Arthur on her left who held a black umbrella over Elizabeth's head. Half a dozen of her servants trailed behind her, including Kat who kept on trying to wiggle her way through the maids and guards in order to get to Elizabeth but was pushed back each time she tried. Arthur's gaze kept on switching to the path ahead and to Elizabeth beside him. He could practically feel the constant fear coursing through her veins and the pale look she wore worried him immensely. She honestly appeared more like she was deathly sick than she did terribly afraid.

Lowering his head to her level and moving closer to her so as to speak with her without any surrounding ears catching what he said, he told her in a low and calm voice, "Look, I know you're scared and you have every reason to be, but I need you to relax a little—as much as you can anyway." Without moving her head, her wide and fear-stricken eyes slowly shifted toward him. "Everything is going to be fine; I just need you to be as calm as you can."

Her only response was a slight but noticeable nod of the head. He noted how she tightly clutched the dark blue fabric of her dress in her white hands, her bony knuckles nearly bulging out of her skin. He offered a small tilt of his lips in reassurance and he was relieved to see her reply in the same way.

But that relief was short lived.

When the group came within sight of the wide black gates, Elizabeth froze entirely and the escort on her right bumped into her shoulder. Her servants stumbled into each other and the guards ahead stopped to turn and look at the petrified girl.[5] Arthur was quick to stop and keep the small umbrella above her; he followed her gaze which was locked onto the rowboat a few meters ahead of them with the wide gates not too far from where the wooden boat was docked.

"Lady Elizabeth," one of the guards uttered, his gruff voice loud so he could be heard over the noisy pattering of the rain. "Come now. We must go—"

"No." Her answer was quiet and only Arthur properly caught the word.

The guard raised an eyebrow. "What was that?"

"No." Her voice was clearer this time and her head shook violently, long red waves bouncing against her sides. "I can't go through those gates. I must go another way."

The escort and the guard exchanged looks and then peered back at Elizabeth. "I'm sorry, but we simply cannot. It has to be this way."

She looked at them in disbelief and her breathing pattern became uneven in fear. She continued to shake her head as if she were trying to convince herself that this wasn't real, that it was all just a terrible, terrible dream. "No, I can't." She peered up at Arthur and he saw her lower lip begin to quiver. "I—I can't. My dear mother came through here and she's—" She left her sentence unfinished as she whipped back to her servants, searching for Kat. "Kat, tell them I can't pass through here. Please, I beg of you."

Kat, being the precious friend she was, immediately went to her aid and turned toward the guards. "Can't she go through the Court Gate?[6] Can't you see the Lady is distraught?"

The guards merely shook their heads but didn't advance toward Elizabeth or motion for them to move forward; Arthur could see the pity their eyes. He exhaled and then leaned toward her. "Elizabeth—"

"No!" She unexpectedly ripped the handle of the umbrella out of his hand and threw it to the side in both terror and frustration. He stared stupidly at his own vacant limb and looked back at her, honestly not believing that she just did that. Rain had begun to soak into her hair and clothes, running down her face in angry lines.

"I can't and I won't go through there! My own mother was dragged through that hellhole and she didn't come back out alive. You're asking me to enter into my own tomb!"

Kat gasped at Elizabeth's sudden rage while Arthur glared at her determinedly. "It's not your tomb," he responded. "I can tell you that for a fact."

He pushed back the hood of the long black cloak he wore and undid the gold button that held it together. He then removed it from himself and then went to drape it across Elizabeth's shoulders. _If I can't protect her from her sister, then I must at least conceal her from the rain._

But she pushed that away too. "No! You can't make me go through that thing for I am not a traitor! The scent of misery and decay is too much here."

She stomped over to a large boulder by the overflowing rain and river water and sat herself down, becoming as immovable and sturdy as that very rock. "I'm not a traitor," she repeated.

The guards and escort did nothing to provoke her to start moving again; they were probably waiting for her tantrum to settle down. One of the young maids began to weep for Elizabeth's sake. Kat hurried over to her lady and threw herself at Elizabeth's feet, her own anxiety beginning to rise.

"Elizabeth, I'm so sorry, my darling, but can't you see? It's the only way. You can close your eyes and pretend it's all not there; I'll hold you if you want. You know that I am here to protect you. Believe me when I say I won't let any harm come your way." She gazed at her pleadingly, raindrops curving around her soft features. "Please, Elizabeth."

She didn't budge.

Arthur pursed his lips and then marched over to where she sat. He lowered his head as he did before and watched her hard expression constantly adjust from dread to fury. Rain dripped from his blond strands as he spoke genuinely to her even though she didn't shift to look back at him.

"You're right; your mother stayed here in her final days and was killed by your father's orders. So I don't blame you in the least that you don't wish to go through the gates or even stay here in general. But Kat is also right; she's here to protect you. _I'm_ here to protect you. Have you fully registered that yet? That I should at your sister's side and obey her every command but instead I'm here with you because I know you wouldn't be able to handle this on your own? My role as a country is to follow my leader's orders, no matter how much I disagree with them and, trust me, I disagree with her plenty. But to be honest I'd much rather be by your side than by Mary's or by Henry's or even by Edward's. I promise you that you'll survive this. I'll make sure of that. As long as I'm here, not even a brush of destruction will come your way." He lightly placed his hand on her arm. "Now let's move along before the guards realize I'm saying all this."

Kat's beseeching stare moved from Arthur's tight and mixed expression to Elizabeth's horrified one. As he spoke, all the anger left the Lady's appearance and it was now just fear lingering there. It took a very long moment for her to finally get up and slowly make her way over to the rowboat and to reluctantly let herself become a prisoner of the Tower of London.

Though her eyes were closed and Kat's arms were wrapped around her being as they passed through, she had her chin held high and controlled her breathing with deep and heavy sighs.

"Ah, one more thing, Sir England," the guard spoke up, bringing Arthur back to the present. He had already opened the door and pushed it forward a little but paused and turned to give him a sour look.

"What?"

"The other day, one of the guards' son was spotted in Elizabeth's cell and presenting her flowers.[7] We can't have that sort of exchange going on; she is still a prisoner after all." He peeked up at him. "It'll only be a matter of time before Queen Mary prevents you from seeing her while in custody."

"Oh, piss off," he hissed and then slammed the door in his face.

Arthur found Elizabeth seated on the floor while looking out one of the windows. The fireplace on his right was active, small orange flames crackling excitedly as if a new dry log was just placed at their feet. Her hard, metal bed on the left was unmade and the night-table that accompany it was pushed slightly away from it (most likely out of Elizabeth's spite).

He removed the broad black hat he wore from his head and stared at Elizabeth's back, a little nervous at how unusually quiet she was today. "E-Elizabeth?"

"Yes, Arthur?" She didn't look back at him but continued to watch the puffy white clouds glide through the blue sky.

"Are you alright?"

A short paused ensued. "I'm fine," she answered. Her voice was low and had a breathy tone to it as if she didn't care for proper speech at the moment.

He swallowed and glanced at the fireplace. "Well, why don't you go outside? It's a nice day out; I'm sure it's more pleasant than staying in the dark with an unnecessary fire going."

"The fire reminds me of Hatfield, of the parlor that Edward was so fond of." He watched her stuck a strand of frizzy red hair behind one ear. "I'd prefer to stay inside today, thank you."

"Very well," he murmured, slowly strolling over to her side by the wide windows. His steps were less noisy than they had been in the hall and the only sound that could be heard in the cell was the popping of the fire. He then lowered himself to the dirty floor next to her and rested his back against the brick wall, sighing audibly as he did so. His eyes dawdled at the closed door on the opposite wall before inching toward Elizabeth again.

She looked much worse than she did two months ago when she was first dragged into the cold and ghastly prison. Her skin was much paler, like that of a ghost, and she lost some weight, making her sharp cheekbones and collarbone stand out even more. Her lips were chapped, the bags under her eyes were deep and had a light shade of purple to them from lack of sleep, and on some days the whites of her eyes were slightly red as if she'd been sobbing recently. Her hair, from the lack of help of her personal maids, was set loose and it reminded Arthur of a lion's mane;[8] it was so long that it circled her waist and tickled her bare feet. Today she wore a loose black gown that hung onto her small frame poorly; she couldn't wear her colorful and puffy dresses back home and was stuck with dull colored robes that were much too big on her.

She was the embodiment of sorrow and dread.

"Have you eaten anything today?" he asked her—his voice sounded neutral, but he was honestly worried about her physical health.

Her chin planted itself on her hands which were folded on the thick windowsill. "I had a slice of bread and some water this morning that they offered me, but nothing since."

"Didn't they—"

"They gave me what they were supposed to. I just didn't eat it all."

"Why not?"

He noticed her dark eyes drop a little so that she was watching the green grass move with the wind. "I fear they will poison me," she whispered.

His body shifted so that he faced her fully though his temple and shoulder still rested against the wall. "They won't poison you, Elizabeth. The people here, they respect you despite what your sister says.[9] No one would do such a thing."

"But Mary despises me. All the guards here work for her, they are under her command. If she told them to kill me, they would without hesitation."

"If your sister really wanted to kill you, she would've done it already." He frowned. "She's burning innocents, Protestants, at the stake. She knows you are one so if she really wanted you gone, then there would've been no hesitation in making that decision."[10]

She replied with silence, still peering out into the rare sunny day like how a vampire would from its black casket. His eyebrows scrunched together in concern. He didn't like it whenever she was silent—she loved to talk about everything and anything, so whenever she refused to speak with him, it felt as though she were an entirely different person. Thus, he changed the subject.

He set his hat on the ground beside him, attempting to ask in a casual voice, "So I hear you're receiving flowers from a young man and apparently the guards didn't appreciate that."

Elizabeth slipped in a small smile and the sight cheered him up a bit. "Dear Theodore. How I miss him so. Those plucked dandelions made my day." She turned her head toward him with the same smile still on her face. "Why do you bring that up? Are you perhaps jealous, Sir England?"

He glared at her and Elizabeth burst into a fit of laughter. His blood rushed to his cheeks and he was tempted to put his hat back on to hide his face from her. But he didn't know where this sudden flash of warmth came from—was it from her coy suggestion or the way her smile broadened and her hair fell in her eyes as she laughed amusingly? Her giggles took him back in time, to when she was a mere child at Hatfield House, happy and without a care in the world.

His eyes glanced back at the cell door and he strained to make this blasted blush go away. "Why must you say things like that?" he grumbled as Elizabeth's laughter slowly died down.

She giggled once more before answering, "Because it is very amusing to watch your reactions. You're so sensitive, Arthur."

He scoffed. _I am not sensitive,_ he thought bitterly. _What a weak and childish word._

She reached out and patted his head like he was stubborn cat isolating himself from any sort of contact. "No need to pout, you tosser. Theodore is four-years-old; such a cute little lad though."

He scratched behind his ear. "I…see." _I didn't know the flower-giver was a four-year-old. Why did that stupid guard make it sound like it was an older man?_

But more importantly, why was he taking so much offense in the first place? He didn't have time to answer his own question because Elizabeth went on (which he was glad for): "You and Theodore are the only ones who make me happy around here. Everyone else is either threatening or avoiding me." She smiled back at him. "I suppose things could be a lot worse if you didn't come to see me every day."

Though the rouge on his cheeks faded, he could still feel its heated presence linger behind. "The pleasure is mine," he mumbled back as that old, familiar spark triggered itself within his chest.

He meant to investigate this strange feeling for quite some time, but hadn't thought about it until now. _What's happening to me?_ his mind questioned helplessly. His and Elizabeth's eyes accidently locked onto one another's once his inquiry was thought. This seemingly innocent action stopped Arthur's heart for a moment; any thought that didn't feature Elizabeth in any way was abandoned in his mind. He watched her observe him—her chestnut colored irises flicked wildly about him as if she were trying to memorize his facial features for a painted portrait. The ghost of her smile was still there, upon those full round lips that he found himself staring at. Her head moved just slightly to the right in thoughtfulness and a curl of her hair fell into her eyes, landing against her prominent nose. He tightened his hand into a fist to resist the powerful urge to tuck the lock behind her ear.

 _Am I in love?_ he speculated astonishingly as he noticed Elizabeth slightly leaning toward him.

Panicking, he spun his head back to the cell door and lowered his eyes to his constricted fist, forcing himself to relax it as much as he could (which wasn't much). He began picking off some dead skin that loped around one of his fingernails, a bad habit of his whenever he got too nervous. He sensed Elizabeth stop abruptly beside him but didn't move back.

"Anyhow, you'll be free of this prison soon enough," he spoke lowly but surely. He knew he was ruining everything, crushing whatever moment they had shared and pretending as though nothing happened in the first place, but he was much too fearful of what _could've_ happened. "You won't be locked up in this dusty, ol' cell much longer; I have strong feelings about that."

Elizabeth paused and then sat back against the corner of the windowsill, her elbow resting upon it and her hand getting tangled in her twisted mane (but not before pushing that bouncy curl back behind her ear). She glanced outside. "Strong feelings, hm?" she muttered.

He furrowed his brows in guilt. He believed he had wounded Elizabeth by rejecting her approach, yet he couldn't return the gesture. _I can't be in love. That would cause nothing but trouble for the future. It is impossible! I cannot love a mortal, much less my princess, my soon-to-be queen…_

But why was his chest on fire and why was his hand cautiously wrapping around Elizabeth's just now?

He unknowingly took the skeletal hand that laid in her lap. He made sure that their fingers didn't touch for fear that they would interlace one another; he clamped his palm on the back of her hand and curved his fingers around her wrist. It was meant to be a sign of protection and strength and he decided it was better than nothing.

Elizabeth peered down at the touch as Arthur confessed, "I truly believe you'll be the next ruler of the country—and a great one at that. Possibly become one of the best I've seen in a long time." He smirked slightly. "And that's saying something from someone in my position."

She grinned back. "Thank you." She then placed her other hand on top of his, in the same manner as he had. "I won't let you down; I'll make you proud."

The fire inside his ribcage grew and he could feel it lick at his throat and warm up his body and mind. "I know you won't let me down—you never did," he whispered, finding it difficult to speak through the rising fire in his lungs.

Her smirk widened into a smile. "I'm glad to hear that. If I were to be queen or to remain a mere Lady, it is my job either way to ensure your happiness. It's the least I can do for you."

His cheekbones reddened once more when she squeezed his hand.

* * *

[1] Elizabeth was placed into the Tower of London (a prison known for its bloody history) at age 21 when her sister, Mary, believed she was a part of the Wyatt rebellion to overthrow the government and to replace Mary as queen. Despite her claims of innocence, she was locked in the tower for two months.

[2] Sir Henry Bedingfield was Lieutenant of the Tower of London during the last few weeks Elizabeth stayed there. Though she never saw him, she feared him greatly—she became kind of paranoid (but for good reason) that everyone was out to murder her.

[3] Elizabeth, though still a prisoner, was allowed some special privileges like walking around the prison's garden and staying in a fairly large room, complete with a fireplace and three windows.

[4] The gate is kind of similar to what you see in horror movies: the black water-gates were only accessible by a rowboat over a small river that went inside the prison grounds. Heads were sometimes displayed on pikes around the gate to show what happens to traitors of England. All prisoners had to enter through this way—and Elizabeth did not like it at all.

[5] The reason why Elizabeth was so afraid of entering the tower was because her mother, Anne Boleyn, and one of her stepmothers, Catherine Howard, was prisoned and executed there. These deaths stayed in her mind the whole time she was there and it was easily one of the most terrifying times of her life.

[6] Another gate entrance to the prison that was less intimidating that was located by the Byward Tower.

[7] This actually happened. A 4-year-old boy would speak with Elizabeth frequently and give her flowers from the garden; Elizabeth liked this boy greatly and he helped her stay calm during her stay in the Tower. But the guards moved her to a more secure cell in the Bell Tower when they began to notice this exchange, keeping a closer eye on her.

[8] England's national animal is the lion so this is my failed attempt to be poetic and compare Elizabeth to a lion.

[9] Unlike Mary, the people loved Elizabeth and respected her as the princess she was entitled to be. Of course, some Catholics hated her because of her Protestant practices; this was one of the many reasons why Mary loathed Elizabeth so much.

[10] Queen Mary I of England was best known as Bloody Mary because of all the Protestants she executed under her rule (over 300 in all). Even though Elizabeth was one, she couldn't kill her for a number of reasons including lack of evidence of her support in the Wyatt rebellion, King Phillip II of Spain's (Mary's husband) claim to keep her alive, and it might've been that she was her own sister, her own flesh and blood.


	8. The Closest Thing to Being Human

_30 March 2017_

He didn't know how exactly, but he made it through the first two hours of the world meeting.

Every now and then, whenever he faded from his memory of the tower, he would catch words or actions from the present time. Alfred had referred to the growing tension of his country and North Korea and what kind of measurements should be taken in order to cease it (most of which were violent). He found Ivan, Yao, and Kiku take notes on majority of what Alfred said; Arthur figured he didn't need write anything down, but made a mental note to keep an eye on the two countries in case anything were to happen.[1] Several times during the meeting, Yao raised his hand and asked Alfred about the money he still owed him (Alfred pretended not to hear him each time he asked).[2]

He also found Francis sitting on the other side of the grand table, a little closer to Alfred at the front with Antonio and Ludwig at his sides. He seemed like his normal self with his hairy chin rested in the palm of his hand and his other hand either scribbling down notes or brushing away a lock of hair out of his eyes. He grew annoyed at how he would always comb back his hair or adjust his suit every other minute and so he eventually glanced down at his own papers, at his vacant notes.

Toris sat at Arthur's right and tried to take notes of what was being discussed, but was often poked at or prodded by Feliks beside him, who was clearly bored by the entire concept of the day's meeting. Matthew, who was on his left, underlined important statements in his copy of the packet Alfred handed out earlier or twirling his thumbs anxiously whenever the slightest argument arose. Either he didn't utter a single word in the last two hours or Arthur was too occupied with his memories to notice (more likely the latter if he had to choose).

When Alfred finally called for a thirty-minute intermission, the countries went on to their individual ways of relaxing. Most, however, got up to go get lunch from the small café in the lobby; some searched through their citizens' American passports again while others remained seated, adding to their personal notes.

Arthur was one of the few who didn't move from his spot (mainly because he didn't hear Alfred's announcement over the sound of pouring rain and a crackling fire producing from his mind). His gaze stayed locked onto his blank sheet of notebook paper as he mindlessly twirled his pen in between his fingers. The reminiscence of Elizabeth's time trapped in the Tower of London ended only when he felt a large hand clamp down on his shoulder and hear an acquainted voice ask him, "Hey, man, didn't you hear me?"

He flinched slightly at the sudden grasp, spinning his head toward the speaker. Alfred was standing behind him with a waiting look on his face as if he just questioned something and was searching for an answer from him. Matthew, who was still beside Arthur at the table, also peered at him like so.

He blinked. "Excuse me?"

"I said breaktime is here. You wanna go grab a bite?" Alfred repeated, jerking his chin toward the double doors ahead.

Running a hand through his hair, Arthur sighed, "No thanks. The last time I ate American food with you was in nineteen eighty-six." He glared at him. "I honestly don't understand how you can consume so much sugar and fat without suffering from a heart attack every other hour."

"You're just jealous because you can't make a decent cheeseburger—or anything for that matter."

Arthur felt his left eyelid twitch slightly at Alfred's comment as he turned to Matthew.

"C'mon, Mattie. Let's go get some lunch."

Matthew smiled apologetically. "I actually ate before I came here today. Thanks though."

At this, Alfred scrunched his eyebrows together, took off his glasses, and then stuck out his bottom lip, his signature puppy-dog face. "I'm feeling ignored, you guys," he whimpered, putting effort into making his voice resemble a five-year-old brat.

Matthew frowned and started saying, "We're not ignoring—" but Arthur interrupted with an annoyed "You do realize that whining while making that stupid face isn't going to get you anywhere, right?"

Alfred quickly dropped the act, aiming his new irritated look at him. "You're being nastier than usual today. What's up with you?"

"Right now, it's your nagging presence; your childish complaining might be next."

Alfred twisted his face in offense. " _Damn_ , asshole. Fine, I'll leave you and the caterpillars you call 'eyebrows' alone. Geez, man."

Arthur bit on the inside of his cheek to keep from yelling back as Alfred stomped off before shoving his glasses back onto his nose. A long and silent moment passed by; he sensed Matthew's eyes on him but didn't acknowledge him in any way. He eventually lifted his teeth from his own flesh and felt a tickle of blood spread among his tongue, a way-too-familiar taste of copper awakening his taste-buds.

 _Shit. I didn't think I bit that hard. I should've just told Alfred to fuck off._

"H-Hey, England?" he heard Matthew say in a feeble tone. "You okay?"

Swallowing his own blood, he replied, "Just dandy."

"Really? Because you seem more exasperated than when my constitution act was created."[3]

He peeked at Matthew. He had that small smirk on his face that he usually wore whenever he tried to cheer someone up. Even though Arthur knew that he got that grin from Francis after being under his rule for almost two hundred years,[4] it somehow looked completely different on him. He crossed his arms and shifted in his seat. "I wasn't exasperated…just slightly annoyed."

Matthew chuckled and adjusted his round glasses. "Yeah, okay. It wasn't like you were glaring at me the whole time the conference went on."

He shook his head, thinking of something to say. "There was…something in my eye. I wasn't glaring at you."

"Okay, so you were looking at me…with hatred."

"I don't hate you! I never did!" he fired back.

Matthew pressed a fist against his mouth and laughed into it, clearly amused with Arthur's made-up excuses. But instead of getting mad, like what he usually did whenever someone laughed at him, he sighed lowly and slumped into his chair a little. "I was just…upset that you were leaving me, too."

Matthew automatically stopped laughing and the sound of others speaking casually and the ruffling of papers filled the silence between them. Arthur peered down at his ring again and spoke softly (to himself or to Matthew, he wasn't sure—he just felt the need to rant a little): "I suppose I should be used to this feeling by now, people leaving me all the time. I lost you, America, Ireland, Seychelles.[5] So many colonies. We are countries, we will live forever so it would make sense to adjust to the feeling of lost. That would be necessary." He scratched his cheek thoughtfully. "But I still get to see you and America and everyone else at these world meetings and other diplomatic matters that we must attend. But…" His voice got lower, so low he thought Matthew wouldn't be able to hear him. "Losing people, losing mortals, has a certain pain that really strikes you down. It's nothing like taking an arrow to the heart or slowly being suffocated from a thick rope around your neck. It's worse, it's a pain unlike any other."

He stroked his ring with his thumb. "Losing her was the worst pain I've ever felt in my entire life," he breathed.

Another moment of silence swam by. It must've been awkward for Matthew, seeing Arthur in this rare and saddening state, but he didn't give the quietness any thought. He didn't want to think about anything else but her.

Matthew shifted around in his seat which squeaked slightly. "Um…" He glanced across the table, probably pondering of what to say exactly to something like that. He cleared his throat and replied in an equally low voice: "Well, when I first started to experience people around me dying, I grew upset and asked France why good people had to die, why I had to stay behind and be forced to watch the same thing happen over and over again. I remember running up to him with tears streaming down my face; I don't know how he understood me between my uncontrollable sobs but he did. His face changed when I asked him that. He's usually bright and happy, but his expression slowly shifted to…I don't know what it was. Emptiness? All I know is that he wasn't happy anymore and then I got scared and asked him if he was okay."

He brushed a lock of blond hair away and continued. "It wasn't until much later that I realized he was thinking about everyone he's seen die. All the wars and plagues and invasions he's been through. He didn't tell me that, of course—I was only around fifty-years-old. When I asked him if he was okay, he quickly replaced his frown with a small smile. He said he was fine and explained to me that death is inevitable to humans. There was nothing I could do about it and it was a fact I'd had to learn to accept. I asked him if the pain of losing someone would ever go away. 'No, it won't,' he told me. 'Hurt always comes with love and we can't stop ourselves from loving someone. Feeling those two things is the most humane thing we can do.'"

Matthew glanced at Arthur. He must've looked like an idiot, eyes wide and pleading like Matthew was the source of all his answers and comfort. He'd never admit it but Matthew's words, Francis's words, left him a little speechless, to say the least.

With his fingers still wrapped around the ring, he blinked at Matthew and asked him, "What else has he told you?"

The Canadian gazed at Francis's empty chair (he probably went to the café with Antonio). "Lots of things. Most of them were cheesy or a little tacky, but all of them were necessary." He looked back at him. "You know, it wouldn't be a bad idea if you asked him about it."

He frowned. "You're the second person who's told me that today and I can't say I'm fond of the idea."

Matthew chuckled again. "Well, if the same thing happens more than once then maybe it was meant to be." He tilted his head towards him. "He told me that, too."

"Of course he did, the hopeless romantic." Arthur peeked at him in interest. "Haven't you learned anything from me?"

He tapped his chin, staring at the high ceiling before landing his eyes on him once more, smirking. "You taught me how to make a proper cup of tea."

He nodded slightly. "That _is_ a necessity for life."

Matthew laughed and Arthur grinned.

The duo spent the next half hour discussing each other's recent activity. Matthew told him of the countless times Alfred has asked to stay at his place so he get away from work all the time while Arthur told him of his time spent with Prince George and Princess Charlotte.[6] Eventually their friendly conversation came to an end when all the other countries sat back down in their seats and Alfred went on with the rest of the meeting.

He twisted the ring around and around his finger, never really letting go. He caught a few words and problems here and there but, naturally, his mind went to other places, to another time. But before he went, he snuck a quick glance at the irritating Frenchman down the table.

* * *

[1] Touchy subject for most people but I'm gonna reference it anyway: America and North Korea have been yelling at each other across the Pacific Ocean for some time, promising to go to war if the other tried anything. Other countries like Japan, China, and Russia have taken some part in the bickering but majority of the world, like France, England, and Australia, haven't done anything but are keeping their guards high. (Think of it as a bunch of countries in a room with a crapload of guns but no one's firing anything.)

[2] The amount of money America owes China from when President Obama was in charge is ridiculous (and maybe a little laughable) with a grand total of 1.2 trillion dollars.

[3] The Canadian Constitution Act (or the British North America Act as the British tend to call it) was established in 1867. Whereas America fought for independence for seven years during the Revolutionary War, Canada held a conference in Quebec and then traveled to London to get signatures on this constitution to which the British agreed to. Basically Canada got their independence from being their sweet and polite selves.

[4] The French traveled over to New France (aka Canada) in 1605, setting up fur posts in Port Royal and Quebec City. It wasn't until 1763 when the Treaty of Paris was signed and Britain took over New France.

[5] According to new research, Britain has invaded all but 22 countries in the world. So, in a sense, they kinda did rule the world for a short period of time.

[6] Prince George and Princess Charlotte of Cambridge are a part of the royal family in England with their parents being Prince William (he's really a Duke though) and Kate Middleton. Kinda common knowledge at this point, but still.


	9. Be Immortal With Me

****FORGET COMPLETELY ABOUT WHAT I SAID A FEW CHAPTERS BACK ABOUT THE SONG "MOONDUST" BEING THE THEME SONG OF THIS FIC. I FOUND A BETTER ONE. It's called "Bare" by WILDES and I hopelessly fell in love with it and couldn't help to compare it with this story. I recommend checking it out.**

 **Anyway, here's another chapter (my favorite one yet) and I will get started right away with the next one. Who needs good grades when you got internet people to impress?** **?** ******

 _15 January 1559_

Arthur observed the wonderful chaos that surrounded him, using all five of his senses in order to capture the liveliness of it all:

An arrangement of stringed instruments playing happily could be heard from the far corner of the enormous room, though the sound of people talking, laughing, clapping, and shouting in triumph was beginning to drown out the uplifting music. All sorts of intoxicating smells tickled his nostrils, anything from freshly baked bread to red wine to glazed meat. He could feel the mild suffocation as there were many warm bodies packed into the banquet hall. He felt a little chilled with his back leaning against the stone wall where the snow outside had been gently falling and the slight breeze pushed itself against bare and slender trees. Even though there was much activity going on—with all the food being passed around, the fire flicking wildly in a nearby fireplace, and the many stirring or dancing guests hopping their way around the room—Arthur's gaze never left the newly queened Elizabeth Tudor.

How could he lose sight of such a creature? She was the brightest and most joyful one in all of Westminster Hall, in all of London perhaps.[1] She sported long purple robes that flowed around her like a river whenever she twirled (which she was doing a lot of because she was happily dancing along with her guests). Her curly red hair acted the same way, bouncing against her sides and back. Sometimes she had to keep a steady hand upon the jeweled crown that sat atop her head. Right now, she was doing just that as her other hand firmly grasped Kat Ashley's right one, both girls spinning themselves an endless circle. He watched her throw her head back and laugh, the happiness and thankfulness clear on her face. He couldn't help but to slip in a tiny smile at the perfect sight.

"England, mi amigo, I believe I'm going to take my leave now."

Arthur turned and spotted Antonio strolling up to him with a relaxed smile upon his lips. He blinked, honestly forgetting that the Spaniard was still here. He then noticed his companion, Count de Feria,[2] trail behind him, silently observing the party going on.

He looked back up at Antonio who clasped a dark hand upon his shoulder. "Tell your new queen that I said congratulations and I'm looking forward to working with her in the future. The coronation was a huge success and I appreciate you letting me attend it."

Arthur raised an eyebrow. "I'll pass on the message if you inform King Philip to stay away from any English affairs."

"Oh, I'll certainly try, but you know him; he's very interested with your rulers, more specifically their religion." His casual smile wavered and a low whine vibrated from his throat. When Arthur's expression of impassiveness didn't change, he sighed and ran a hand through his messy brown hair. "God, will the Inquisition ever end?"[3]

Feeling somewhat guilty for bringing up the subject, Arthur added, "All things must come to an end at some point."

Antonio straightened up a bit and nodded back. "Si, I agree."

 _You can utter the lowest form of a compliment or comfort to this man and he'll treat it like you just gave him the fountain of youth,_ Arthur thought, not knowing how the Spaniard could do that.

"Anyhow, my king needs me back in Spain. My boat departs at the break of dawn so I should get some sleep beforehand." He glanced down at Count de Feria, who was still gazing around the crowded room like a skeptic. "Gómez, do you want to come with me?"

De Feria glanced at the two countries and replied dully, "I will travel with you to our current place of residence, but I think I will stay here in London for a bit longer." His squinty eyes landed on Arthur. "You wouldn't mind, would you, Sir England?"

He had a suspicious feeling stirring in his stomach, but he nodded his head anyway, his expression remaining emotionless. "Do as you please."

"Thank you, Sir."

Antonio grinned and pushed out his hand toward Arthur. "It was nice seeing you again, England."

Arthur took his large, rough hand and shook it firmly. "Likewise."

The two Spaniards left the hall but not before de Feria took another glance over his shoulder, observing as much as he could of the ongoing celebration. Arthur glared at the man until he was out of sight. _I must keep a close eye on that man,_ he told himself. _I don't trust him at all._

"Elizabeth, I am an old woman. I can't keep twirling like this."

Recognizing Kat's voice, Arthur turned back to the commotion. He noticed Elizabeth and Kat standing by the table closest to him; Kat appeared out of breath while Elizabeth's eyes were wide with excitement.

"Oh, come now, dear Kat! Dance with me some more and help me in rejoicing for this happy day." Elizabeth tugged on her arm playfully.

"I've done much more dancing tonight than I have ever done in my entire life." She plopped down in the nearest chair, fanning herself with her own hand. "I fear I should faint if I should keep going."

John Ashley, Kat's husband who happened to be sitting next to her, laughed heartily and gently patted her back. "And dance marvelously you did, my dear. I'm honestly surprised you lasted as long as you did."

Kat snorted and pushed back his limb. "I danced more than I did on our wedding night. Can you believe such a thing?"

"Perhaps your twirling skills advance the older you get? What a strange gift!"

The couple laughed, as did Elizabeth. Suddenly her gaze came across Arthur and her dark eyes lit up almost instantly. She gathered her dress in her fists and hurried over to him. "Arthur, come and dance with me, won't you?"

She stopped about a meter from him and he examined her contented state. Her curls were becoming frizzy and they waved in the air whenever she moved. Her robes dragged slightly on the floor, but it still clung to her small body. She stood straight like a solider and, with her high heels on, she stood a couple centimeters taller than Arthur (he now had a habit of correcting his poor posture whenever she was around). Her face was a little red and that grand smile on her lips never ceased; her round eyes gazed at him and sparkled like the stars in a black sky.

He bit on the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling too widely. _God, what a beauty._

"Arthur!" she repeated, grabbing his crossed arms. "Dance with me!"

As she got closer to him, he could smell the faint odor of alcohol slipping from her breath. "Have you been drinking?"

She rolled her eyes to the ceiling. "Only two pints of beer and nothing more. Kat asked me the same question earlier." She looked back at him. "But please join me in a dance!"[4]

Arthur shook his head. "No, thank you. I'm perfectly fine where I am."

Her smile dropped for a moment and she crinkled her eyebrows at him. "Why? Why won't you join me?"

He frowned slightly. "Because I don't enjoy dancing. The concept seems…" He trailed off, searching for the right word. "…complicated."

"You mean you don't know how?"

"It's not that, it's—"

"I'd be more than happy to teach you! My dear, how could you live for so many centuries and _not_ know how to dance properly?" She squeezed his forearms. "Come, I shall show you how."

He suddenly felt a little nervous and he shook his head once more. "Elizabeth, I'd honestly rather not."

She glowered at him, but it appeared more like a childish pout. She put her fists on her hips and declared, "I am your Queen. You shall listen to me and obey my commands, no matter how ridiculous they may seem. So, I order you to dance with me." She slipped in a sly smirk. "Must I force you to do something so innocent?"

His shoulders slumped and he swallowed a groan. He hung his head, sighed deeply, and then uncrossed his arms. "Yes, Your Majesty. But if I step on your toes, that's on your hands."

"A deal is made then." She giggled and clasped his hand. "And don't be so formal with me; we're friends, are we not?"

She left the question rhetorical and drew him toward the other dancing guests. She placed themselves a little away from the crowd, but close enough so that they could hear the cheerful melodies of the violins. She faced him and explained, "Now don't you worry, I won't make you learn such complicated dance routines. We'll start off with something simple."

He was greatly relieved of this for the fast-paced steps and lifting of women seemed way too difficult for him to process. "Oh, thank God," he muttered under his breath.

She laughed. "You see? I'm not that horrible of a queen."

"Not yet anyway."

"Oh, don't be such a wanker. Now listen." She clasped his right hand with her left one and brought it up to shoulder level. "This is a very simple ballroom dance, very casual actually. We are to hold hands like so while I rest my other hand here"—She placed her slender fingers upon his left shoulder—"and you must place your other hand on my waist."

He complied, his face heating up suddenly; he tried to cover it with a loud huff. "This is absurd."

"Hush. Now watch my feet."

He glanced down to see her silver heels poke out from beneath her purple robes. "You're going to take the first move, so you're going to move like this." She stepped backward and then forward and then moved to the left before going to her right and then stopping where she originally started. "See? Simple as that. You're going to keep moving like that while I go in the opposite direction as you. Are you ready?"

"No."

"Well, you better learn fast. Now go."

He bit down on his bottom lip in anxiousness as he stepped backward. Elizabeth followed him by stepping forward. "Very good," she complimented.

He stepped forward and she stepped backward. "There you go; you've already got the hang of it."

He went to go right, but was met with Elizabeth's foot, softly crushing her toes.

He quickly moved back in a frenzy manner. "I beg your pardon!"

She laughed loudly. "Don't worry about it. It just brings me such joy to know that I am better at something than you are."

He frowned and felt his ears warm up in embarrassment. "I'm just a tad stressed at the moment."

"I can see that. But let's try again, shall we?"

They went on like this for a short while. He stepped on her toes a few more times but she ignored the accidental injuries, insisting for him to go on. The learning process was extremely uncomfortable and nerve-racking for him and he felt as though his face would explode in a fiery gust of heat at any second. But Elizabeth was apparently having a grand time; her smile was wide and genuine and she was so close that whenever she laughed at him, her beer-scented breath would waft up his nostrils. Since she was generally a bright person, he couldn't tell if she was drunk or just being her happy self.

After the awkward dance lesson, Elizabeth parted from him and waved her hand in her face. "Whew! Is it just me or is this clustered room causing your temperature to rise?"

Feeling like a man burning at the stake for the last half hour, he rubbed his forehead. "Something of the sort."

"Well why don't we get some fresh air? Suppose the frosted breeze will perk up our senses again?" Without asking him, she grabbed his hand again and dragged him after her, but not before she stopped by Kat's side, who still sat at the table.

"Kat, Arthur and I shall be outside for just a moment. The stuffy heat is infecting me. If anyone calls for my presence, inform them that I'll be standing outside the palace and to fetch for me; I won't be long."

She looked slightly concerned as she said this. "Are you alright, my dear? Should I tell the guests to—?"

"No, no. Let them be happy. I'll be out no longer than ten or so minutes."

Kat glanced up at Arthur. "England?"

"She's fine; I'll keep watch over her," he promised though his tone was sort of grey like he was forced against his will to say it.

She nodded slowly. "Alright. I'll be in here if either of you need anything."

"Thank you, my dear Kat," Elizabeth acknowledged before strolling out of the room and down an empty hall.

"Is this really necessary?" he asked her as he continued to let himself be Elizabeth's mule. "Can't you just sit down back in the hall, surrounded by your people?"

"I enjoy the winter season. Besides your face is as red as a ruby." She shot him a cunning grin in his direction. "I believe you need the chilly breeze more than I do."

He rubbed his eyes, a poor attempt to cover up his face. "I'm fine. Shouldn't you get a cloak or something? It is snowing outside."

"My robes are heavy enough; we'll only be out for a moment's time. There's nothing to fear."

They came across the two grand doors that led to the outside world. The first thing Arthur noticed was the black sky above them with a great lack of stars hanging from it. The only thing that was in the sky was the slow drifting of snowflakes that started to collect in his hair and melt into his heated skin. The snow was a mere dusting that covered the dead grass that spread out before them so they didn't have to trudge through any snow hills or piles. All the gay cheering and harmonious instruments he heard earlier was now completely gone and he could only hear Elizabeth's soft footsteps as she strolled over to the palace's stone wall.

She sighed, breathing in the winter scent. "Such a lovely night out, wouldn't you say?"

He followed her, shoving his hands in his coat pockets. "I suppose so."

They listened to the echoing silence for a minute as they observed the humble snow fall. _I've always found it strange that winter has a certain sound to it,_ he wondered. _It's calm and peaceful but very loud at the same time. Why is that?_

"Are you enjoying yourself, Arthur?"

He looked at the hopeful expression Elizabeth was giving him. "Honestly, are you having a good time?"

He nodded. "Yes, of course. I'm proud of your new title; I'm sure you'll carry it well."

She smiled shyly like he just praised on her hair or clothes. "Thank you. I'm glad you think that."

Winter interrupted them with its strange silence once more. Elizabeth spoke up again, this time sounding a little unsure of herself: "Arthur, what's it like being immortal?"

He blinked at the random question. "Why do you want to know?"

She shrugged innocently. "Just curious."

He thought about it before he answered. "It's…difficult to explain. You see many things and learn many lessons and meet a lot of people and see things grow, but…" It was his turn to shrug. "Sometimes you just want the world to stop moving so quickly."

She nodded like she understood. "I see. Your existence is very complex to say the least."

"Absolutely."

She bit into her bottom lip hesitantly. "Sometimes I wish I were immortal too."[5]

He crossed his arms as a slight breeze overcame them. "Why's that?" He's met many humans in the past that wanted to become immortal, but it was mainly for power and fame. He didn't think Elizabeth would want immortality for those irrational needs.

"Lots of reasons: you wouldn't age, you'd get to see the whole world, learn and create new things. But I guess…" Her voice lowered and she peeked up at him, unexpectedly appearing nervous. "I would want to be immortal so that I could spend forever with you."

They gazed silently at each other as Arthur's brain ran a million miles per hour, his jaw clenching itself slightly. _Spend forever with you? What does that mean? Is she saying what I think she's implying? No, it can't be. That's impossible. How could something like this be true? How could something like this even work?_

But despite everything that sped through his mind like a bullet, a quiet "What?" was all that could pass through his thin lips.

Elizabeth said nothing and continued to stare at him calmly (although there appeared to be a touch of hope hidden in those big brown eyes). The lack of a proper response from his queen confirmed his assumptions which caused his anxiety to rise to immeasurable heights. Struggling immensely to conceal this from her, he laughed half-heartedly and dug his fingers into his thick black tailcoat. "You're off your trolley, my queen."

She glared menacingly at him. "I'm not drunk, Arthur. I'm fully aware of what I'm doing; in fact, I don't think I've ever been so sure of something in all my life. So, how dare you imply such a childish assumption. That took me a great amount of courage to say to you."

"A childish assumption? How dare _you_ for wanting yourself to get involved with an impossible…" He gritted his teeth, his tongue trying to form the word. "…relationship. You know perfectly well that something like that can never be. I am forever, you are temporary."

Somewhere in the back of his brain, he knew he was crossing a line, but his overall conscience could've cared less now.

Instead of getting hurt or being ashamed, Elizabeth fired back with as much offense as him. "You're the one who's childish here! It's like back in the Tower; you rejected my affection for you like it was poison, a vile thing. Do you truly wish to remain alone for all of eternity? To go on without feeling love or true companionship? What a sad, lowly life you're setting yourself up for."

He jabbed a finger in her face. "You told me that you wished to remain single for all your life, so I don't want to hear you blaming me for wanting the same thing, you hypocrite!"

She smacked away his hand with a dangerous scowl on her face. "Except for you, every man I met in my life treated me like shit. Filthy, good-for-nothing shit! Thomas Seymour thought it was amusing to grab my arse whenever he pleased, King Philip I know has plans on proposing to me so he can force me to change my religion,[6] my own father refused to speak with me and got my mother killed for his own selfish reasons. I didn't want to marry because I knew I would have to submit to another stupid man, because I am a woman therefore I am weak and dumb. _You're_ the only man who has seen me as an equal and has treated me like I had a chance of becoming queen all along!"

"How could I not? I hated your father for that! A week after you were born, he declared you illegitimate and wanted you as far away from the throne as you could possibly be. I couldn't believe he would do such a thing. You were small and helpless and innocent; you had done no one harm yet Henry took your very existence as a knife to the throat. I pitied you!" He glared. "And besides, this delusion of a happy-go-lucky bond with one another that you have is useless; you're wasting your time. All I have to say is 'I'm eternal' and then I will win any argument."

She grabbed his arm and pulled it toward herself, closing a little of the space between them. "Let me into your life and I shall become eternal with you."

He easily ripped his arm away from her. "You're mad, just like the rest of your damned family."

"If I am to be a mad woman for caring for you, then so be it."

And then she reached out, grabbed his face in her hands, and pressed her lips firmly on his mouth.

His gasp was muffled against her slightly chapped lips and at first he could do nothing but stand there in shock, trying to absorb what was happening. He felt her small hands run through his choppy blond hair, her smooth, cold skin brush against his burning one. His mind was blank and his eyes were open. He didn't know what to think or what to do; he'd never been in a situation like this before.

With his full awareness incomplete and her hands still on him—without any sign that she was letting go anytime soon—he did the only thing that came into his shell-shocked brain and kissed her back.

His hands slid around her waist and then traveled up her spine, easily getting tangled in her red mane. The space was completely vacant from them now but he still pressed her body against his, as if she has plans to back away from him; sudden dread controlled his arms at the birth of this thought. Even though he'd never done this before (and he knew Elizabeth hadn't either), their lips seemed to understand what to do, gripping and moving with each other at all the right times. It certainly wasn't like ballroom dancing—it wasn't complex or difficult or burdensome, but it was nice and pleasant and desirable.

He could sense that old spark in his chest, the one that hopped around like a rabbit in his ribcage for the longest time suddenly flare up and explode like colorful fireworks in the winter night sky. It was beautiful and captivating; he wanted more of it and he got just that as he felt Elizabeth smile against his chin when his lips missed hers and ended up kissing her nose. Every touch, every word, every glance that Elizabeth made, he came to realize, made him feel this way and it had always been like that. He called himself a fool for not accepting this conclusion sooner like back at the Tower when she needed him to understand it the most. But now he did; he knew what this feeling was and he welcomed it.

"Elizabeth?"

The distracted pair immediately bolted out of each other's arms when the unexpected voice reached their eardrums like a pistol firing into the open air. Their lips pulled away with a loud smacking sound and they both turned to see a figure stand by the grand doors to Westminster Hall. It was Kat and she wore an expression of surprise and confusion on her wrinkled face.

Arthur quickly spun around so that he was facing the empty field surrounding them. His face was now hotter than ever before and he wouldn't be too surprised if steam began puffing out from his ears. His hands clung to the stone wall next to him and he scooted away from Elizabeth as far as he could.

She did the same thing except her hands were tightened into fists at her sides and she jumped out into the dusty snow, her back straight and rigid as a flagpole. She held her head high and was looking at Kat's figure; she tried to pretend that nothing happened, but Arthur and Kat knew her too well to know that she couldn't pass that off with just a flattened posture and pointed look.

"Y-Yes?" Elizabeth stuttered out. Her speech was already failing her, a sign that she was clearly nervous or guilty of something.

Kat sniffed and casted her eyes downwards, probably just as embarrassed as the two of them. "Um, there are some members of your Privy Council[7] who wish to speak with you."

Arthur peeked at the queen from the corner of his eye. Panic was scribbled among her strong features and he caught her throat bob as she swallowed uneasily. "Oh, y-yes, of course. I'll be right there." She paused for a moment so she could send her troubled expression his way: her light eyebrows were slightly upturned, her red lips were left ajar, and her dark eyes were crinkled in humiliation. This look told him that she didn't mean for this to happen, for someone to barge in on them: _I'm sorry. It wasn't supposed to be like this._ He sent a very small nod her way (he was afraid she wouldn't recognize it as a nod it was so small) to respond with his own message: _I know. Go on._

Pressing her lips together so that it formed a tight white line, she bowed her head and walked toward Kat, who held open the door wide for her. Once she disappeared into the darkened hall, Kat turned once more to glance at Arthur's pathetic huddled form by the wall before gently closing the wooden doors.

Arthur released a breath he hadn't realized he had been holding—it came out in a desperate pant like he'd been trapped underwater for several hours. His widened eyes stared deeply at the powdery snow beneath his boots as he tried to gain control of himself again.

"What the bloody fuck just happened?" he managed out between pants, gazing at the snow as if it held all the answers. So many actions, so many emotions just coursed through him; it was far more than he could keep up with.

 _Elizabeth kissed me—that much I know,_ he told himself. _But why? Was it out of spite, to prove a point? Perhaps to back up her confession of wanting to become forever with me? Or did she just kiss me because she wanted to? And why did I kiss back? Why did I like it? I shouldn't have done such a cruel thing; I've only encouraged her that this…whatever the hell this is become true, to become real. It can't work, it won't work. What have I done?_

But he also knew that he didn't regret anything; he missed it actually. His cold fingers carefully touched his lips, where hers had been. He could still feel them there and he knew how much he wanted it back. He wanted to taste the beer on her tongue again and to feel her honest smile against his skin once more. He wished to feel her round waist and to get himself twisted in her gorgeous head of curly hair. But he _yearned_ for that feeling again; he wanted his chest to burst into a lively fire of passion like before. This fire, he knew, was love. He wanted to love and be loved in return.

And Elizabeth had offered it all to him.

He slowly straightened himself up and glanced back at the closed doors. His and Elizabeth's feelings were clear about this dream relationship but God, what would everyone else think? The government, the English people, the other countries, _the rest of the world?_ Would they approve or would they have the common sense to tell them that it would be best to stay a fantasy? The flaws in it were as present as the drifting snow about him. So many wrongs could happen yet he still wanted this to happen, despite what he claimed earlier.

A very long and constructive talk between him and Elizabeth was to happen soon to say the least.

* * *

[1] Westminster Abbey is located in London and is where Queen Elizabeth I's coronation was held, becoming queen at the age of 25. Several preparations were made in order to make it happen, but it turned out to be very successful. It was a very long day for her but she had a wonderful time; she had to postpone a joust that was organized for the next day because she was "feeling rather tired."

[2] Gómez Suárez de Figueroa, the Count de Feria, was the Spanish ambassador to King Philip II of Spain. He mainly stayed in England during Elizabeth's rule and would send letters to his king, explaining her actions and behavior in a very dry and sometimes mischievous tone.

[3] The Spanish Inquisition began in 1478 (when it was at its worse) but didn't officially end until around 1818. King Philip II brought up the inquisition again in 1555, when he first came into power, in attempt to stop the growth of Protestantism in Europe.

[4] Cute little facts about Elizabeth: her favorite drink was beer and she would sometimes drink it along with her breakfast. She also loved to dance, sing, and play instruments; she also enjoyed theater and actually shared a friendship with William Shakespeare (who was a big fan of the queen and dedicated some of his plays to her).

[5] Elizabeth kinda did have an obsession with immortality—or with the appeal of it anyway. This is where her "Virgin Queen" role came into play, which made her stand out not only in her time but in all of history. She would usually appear in front of her people in lavish attire and expensive jewelry and would never admit to when she was sick or feeling weak and did a good job of concealing her emotions whenever she worked or went out in public. She presented herself as the perfect image of a goddess or eternal life that England needed after being under the rule of Henry VIII and Mary I. This can be looked at as a form of propaganda.

[6] King Philip of Spain did send a proposal via letter shortly after her becoming queen in hopes of converting her to Catholicism and so he could be King of England again (like he did with Queen Mary). Elizabeth rejected him almost immediately, knowing every flaw it would bring about the English nation/government and she really just hated the guy.

[7] Literally days after she was declared queen, Elizabeth went to work with setting up new members of her Privy Council. Most of them contained people who supported her when Mary was the queen and she quickly got rid of Mary's old members—all of Elizabeth's Privy Council members were Protestants.


	10. Hesitant Steps

****Terribly sorry for my freak-out chapter post a while ago. Don't know what happened there, but I think it's fixed now. Obviously, coded nonsense is not a part of my story.**

 **Anyway, hope you enjoy the (correct) chapter.****

 _30 March 2017_

After spending a total of five hours of sitting in the same chair, Arthur finally stood up once the world meeting had come to an official end.

As countries around him also rose to their feet and started shaking hands with one another (he didn't understand why—as usual, nothing significant had been resolved), he straightened himself up and felt his stiff legs slowly regain feeling once again. Matthew, who stood up before he did, smiled warmly down at him and offered his hand.

"It was nice talking with you again, England," he said. "I hope the rest of your day isn't as painful your morning was."

He smirked and shook his hand. "I hope so too. I appreciate you lending an ear; you're a very good listener."

Matthew shrugged. "It's more of a habit I picked up when I became a wallflower of almost every world meeting."

His smirk shifted into an awkward smile. He knew he was guilty of not noticing Matthew sometimes, but it wasn't entirely his fault. Matthew was just a soft speaker. "Yes, I can see why…"

Matthew chuckled. "It's fine; you don't have to try and make me feel better. I kinda accepted the fact long ago."

Arthur felt a little thankful at that—God knew how horrible he was at reassuring others.

"Hey, Mattie," Alfred called from his place at the head of the table. He was trying to shovel mounds of paperwork into his worn-out briefcase. "Be an awesome bro and help me get all this shit together."

Matthew's shoulders slumped and he glared through his oval-shaped glasses. "He always asks me to clean up his mess—not just at world meetings but his presidential elections and campaigns, too," he muttered.

Arthur frowned. "You could just say no."

"Nah, this will give me a good excuse to rub my free healthcare and Kinder Eggs in his face."

"Ah, do remind him of China's money that he still owes."

"I'll pass it on." He smiled widely. "See you later."

"Good day."

The two shared a small grin before Matthew strolled over to Alfred and Arthur began organizing his things into his own bag (which was only his ballpoint pen and the papers Alfred handed out earlier—he'd been much too distracted to take anything else out). Once he got everything packed, he sauntered over to the double doors that everyone else was exiting out of. He was pleasantly surprised to find Kiku standing a little off to the side with his small, brown eyes aiming his way, obviously waiting for him to catch up. When he did, Kiku blinked in greetings and asked, "What'd you think of the meeting today, Mr. Britain?"

He shrugged. "There wasn't anything too concerning—nothing worth wasting the ink in my pen."

Kiku raised his eyebrows in surprise. "Really?" He looked down at the notes in his hand, Japanese characters decorating Alfred's pamphlets and transcripts. "I feel as though I must reread my notes and then schedule appointments with Mr. America and China in order to come up with a solution to this problem."

Arthur gave him a long stare. "You really are worried about this bickering conflict, aren't you?"

Kiku neatly folded the packet into a little, tight square and shoved it inside his jacket pocket. He returned Arthur's stare, replying, "Mr. America is not only an ally, but a close friend of mine. I must help him however I can." He hesitated. "And besides, North Korea and I haven't been on good terms for a long time."[1]

Arthur saw a small flash of dread and uncertainty pass through Kiku's dark eyes like an animal sensing the wind before the storm. He'd seen that look plenty of times in the past, but it usually occurred whenever one was in battle, either physically or internally. That meant Kiku was recollecting unwanted memories of him and North Korea; Arthur pursed his lips together in anxiousness. But, just as quickly as it came, the look passed on and Kiku regained his typical neutral expression.

Feeling a bit annoyed, Arthur thought, _Kiku can let go of his ghosts better than I can._

Instead of giving a proper response, he merely nodded his head and hummed in acknowledgment as they shuffled along with the other countries out of the conference room, through the lobby, and into the cool air outside, waiting for the final ferry to come and take them back to the busy streets of Manhattan.

Kiku, thankfully, had brought up other (and less depressing) topics to discuss while they scanned the lapping waters and slowly drifting clouds. They conversed about the last time they'd been on American soil (Kiku was at Washington D.C. as an escort for his prime minister so he could formally meet Alfred and his new president a month ago and Arthur admitted that he'd visit Alfred in Brooklyn nearly a year before to celebrate his 240th birthday), making plans for the next world meeting that Ivan was to host in Moscow, and the Japanese man dropped some forgotten facts about Ellis Island he learned while on their break.

He scratched the back of his head. _Japan is easily amused. Honestly, the upbringing of this immigrant station isn't as spectacular as he believes it to be._

Kiku glanced at him. "If you don't have any other plans for the rest of the night, would you be interested in joining me for an early dinner? There's other subjects I wish to discuss with you and I haven't eaten any American food in a while."

"Trust me, you're doing your taste buds a favor," he mumbled under his breath, but he straightened himself up and grinned at Kiku, acting as though he never said anything. "Sure, that sounds great. Even though I haven't been in New York City for some time, I do remember this particular restaurant that prepares some fine dishes."

Kiku grinned back and nodded his head; he opened his mouth to reply, but an unexpected voice interrupted his attempt.

"There you are, Mr. England. Did you think you could escape from this conference without speaking with me?"

Arthur immediately dropped his smile as he turned to face the unwanted speaker. Francis Bonnefoy strolled toward the duo with Antonio trailing not too far behind (he was speaking excitedly with Emma[2] and she was responding back in the same manner). He held his own briefcase in his right hand and had his left stuck in his jacket pocket with his thumb sticking out. His jacket was left unbuttoned so whenever the wind picked up, his marron colored shirt and long blond hair would ripple against it. Francis had that same old smirk on his face whenever he knew he was pissing Arthur off which he always seemed to do a fine job of.

"Avoiding conversation with you is my life's work, frog," he replied with a dull expression.

"Well, that's a difficult goal for you to have considering all the colorful insults that constantly come out of your mouth."

"They're not insults, they're _truths._ "

"Hello, Mr. France," Kiku spoke up, bowing slightly at the waist. Arthur looked at him and wondered if Kiku was willing to be the peacemaker between him and Francis; _that'll certainly be a piece of work._ "How are you today?"

"I'm doing just fine, Japan, thank you." He smiled and tucked a strand of hair behind his ear. "I saw you scribbling away at the meeting—are you worried about North Korea?"

Arthur wanted to puke at Francis's perfect white teeth and thick wavy locks.

"Yes, very much so. Not only am I anxious for my country and people, but for Mr. America's as well. How are you handling this situation?"

Francis shrugged. "I won't make any sacrifices unless it's absolutely necessary, and this isn't one of those cases; I'm not too concerned about this."

"That is what Mr. Britain said."

Arthur shot a glare in Kiku's direction to which the small Japanese man tensed up. In the back of his mind, Arthur knew this wasn't something to get offended about, but he had shared some rather personal information with Kiku today and he _did not_ what Francis to know _anything._ Thus he gripped his left hand into a tight ball and tried to bury it in his sleeve.

Francis raised his eyebrows and slipped in a sly smirk. "You mean to tell me that England isn't running head-first into a battle that doesn't involve him? He's not going to try and colonize Korea?"

"Oh, shut the fuck up," he bit back, his frown and glare deepening. "Who asked you into this conversation in the first place? Mind your own business."

Francis tilted his head to the side like a cat observing an annoyed spider raising its front legs in defense. "Antonio told me that you seemed a little sad today, but it's hard to tell when you're constantly yelling in my face."

"Fine, I'll admit, when I awoke this morning, I was saddened to realize that I'd have to spend the rest of the day stuck in a room with all you hopeless idiots."

He noticed the Frenchman's gaze lower towards Arthur's tugged sleeve, pause for a moment, and then flick back to his scowl. "Are you sure that's the reason why?" he asked nonchalantly.

Panic gripped his pounding heart at the inquiry, but Arthur made sure to keep his facial features tight with infuriation. _What the bloody fuck does he think he's doing?_ his mind demanded. _How does he know about my internal mourning for Elizabeth? Only Japan and Canada have vague understandings of it and I've been around their presences for majority of the day—so, how does France know?_

He exhaled hotly through his nostrils like a bull and uncurled his spine, shooting dangerous stares at Francis as he hissed between his teeth, "I said mind your own goddamn business."

The slightly amused look that had sparked in Francis's blue eyes faded away and was replaced by a deep exasperation. These intense glowers were common for the two nations whenever they encountered, but that didn't mean the aura they carried wasn't intimidating or uncomfortable.

"Oh, look," Kiku spoke up, his voice a little high from worry, "our ferry has arrived."

Arthur didn't bother to glance at the upcoming transport; he kept his glare firmly locked onto Francis's, refusing to back down. Francis did the same but only for a brief moment for he quickly threw on another smile and then whirled towards Antonio, calling out, "Mon ami,[3] our ferryboat is here!"

Antonio abruptly dropped the friendly chat he was having with Emma, looked at Francis, and then exclaimed, "Ah, bueno. Vamonos!"[4] before grabbing Emma's hand and lightly jogging over to the docking boat.

"Let's go, Mr. Britain," Kiku carefully pleaded.

Arthur, still full of hate, held up his chin as Francis turned back to him and presented a subtle wink. "Oui," he added, his sociable smile switching to a cunning sneer, "let's go, Mr. Britain."

Arthur watched the infuriating nation stroll after Antonio and Emma, his blood boiling and his heart thrashing.

* * *

[1] Just like England, Japan had an empire and colonies under their control (like Korea) that fell apart after World War II. After North Korea and South Korea gained independence after the war, the two countries have been arguing or threatening Japan constantly. South Korea and Japan signed the Treaty of Basic Relations in 1965 and Japan recognized them as their own country and government. North Korea has no diplomatic ties with Japan and continue to make deadly threats to bomb them.

[2] I've done more research than probably necessary for finding Belgium's human name so I just settled on Emma because it's supposedly a very common name in Belgium.

[3] French translation: "My friend."

[4] Spanish translation: "Ah, good. Let's go!"


	11. The Virgin Queen

****I edited the hell out of this chapter, bros. My mind kept changing and I kept second guessing England's character/reactions and the amount of research I spent on Medieval hunting was probably unnecessary (writing is flippin' hard). Nevertheless, here it is and I hope you guys enjoy it.**

 **Now if you excuse me, I need to go and straighten my cramped fingers and curved spine from leaning over my laptop too long.****

 _29 January 1559_

Elizabeth had been Queen of England for two weeks and, for Arthur at least, each day grew heavier with awkwardness and ambiguity.

It had nothing to do with her reign, however. She immediately went to work by assembling her Privy Council and Privy Chamber and addressing the issue of religion.[1] She surprised him with her hardworking nature and peaceful intentions; it was a trait that the rest of her family failed to possess. She also plainly stated from the beginning to her council members that she was to stay single in the international marriage market. He would sometimes hear the businessmen snicker quietly behind their fists before discussing amongst themselves which king or duke would suit her best.

Normally, Arthur would agree with Elizabeth's men and try to convince her to marry a proper suitor and to birth an heir who was to eventually become the next ruler of the country. But after their little "talk" outside the palace walls, he didn't know which side he was on.

He kind of expected Elizabeth to show some indication of embarrassment or shyness (like himself) whenever they saw each other at court, but instead, she kept her face impassive as if nothing happened between them. She spoke to him like what they were supposed to be: business partners. Her speech was sophisticated and her responses were clever—just like always—and usually Arthur was too, but whenever she asked him a question or addressed him in some way, he would stutter out some form of a passable answer and feel his cheeks heat up instantly.

 _This is humiliating,_ he thought to himself as he swiftly walked down one of the grand halls of Hampton Court. _I must speak privately with her so as to erase this cursed blush off my face._

It was a Thursday and around eight in the early morning—this was the day and time when Elizabeth should be preparing to go out to hunt[2] for a while before attending a meeting with the Privy Council. With his sword hanging from his hip and his deep green cloak flowing behind him as his footsteps picked up speed, he gripped Elizabeth's velvet cloak in his arms. On the previous night, he was lucky enough to pluck it from where she abandoned it on a low chair in one of her private chambers. He knew she would need it for hunting purposes and would be in a frantic search for it.

This was his way for getting her to speak with him—alone.

He made it to a grand wooden door that led to the back of the palace, where she would have to go in order to get to the stables that kept all the horses, hunting gear, and other necessities. He planted himself next to it and waited patiently for Elizabeth to show up. It took some time and he would nod or bow slightly to any passing maids or workers of the castle. Eventually he heard the accomplishing sound of Elizabeth whining, "Where the bloody hell is my robe?"

He couldn't help but to smirk to himself.

She came hurrying down a nearby staircase, gathering her dress in her fists and stomping her laced-up boots on every step. Her curly hair was brought up into a tight bun on the back of her head and her pale face was set into a frustrated scowl. She looked around her wildly.

"I swear on my father's grave I left it by—" Her eyes landed on Arthur and she noticed her cape in his hands. She breathed in relief and made her way over to him, her boots clicking in the wide hallway like drops of water in a cave.

"My cloak! Thank you very much, dear Arthur. I seriously believed I was losing my mind. It was by that old chair, wasn't it?"

She reached out to take it from him, but he moved his arms away, leaving her grasping at the air. She blinked and looked up at him. He stared back at her as her dark eyes moved up and down his figure, probably just now realizing that he was in full hunting attire. Realization soon replaced the confusion in her features.

"I require to speak with Your Majesty," he declared. He stepped forward and lowered his voice. "Privately."

"Oh, why don't you just wear my cloak, Elizabeth?" Kat's voice soon followed Arthur's request and he peered up to see her come to the same staircase Elizabeth descended. She had a dull brown cape in her arms and was about to shuffle down the stairs but paused in her tracks when she found the duo standing by the door. "Oh, Sir England…um, Elizabeth?"

Without tearing her eyes away from Arthur, Elizabeth raised her hand to silence Kat and mumbled out, "Fear not, my dear Kat. Arthur has recovered my cloak for me. I no longer need your service." She hesitated and then finally turned to look at Kat over her shoulder. "I am going hunting with Arthur. There is no need to prepare my ladies anymore for today's hunt. They can sleep in for a change; I assure you my presence is safe with our country's personification."

Kat didn't respond for a moment but only stared at them, uncertain. Arthur bit the inside of his cheek, remembering the old governess's sudden intrusion two weeks ago. How did she think of him now? Was she disappointed? Doubtful?

She pursed her lips and then nodded once. "Very well, my queen. I'll inform the ladies."

Elizabeth bowed slightly. "Thank you. We'll be back in an hour or two."

Arthur unfolded the purple cloak in his arms as Elizabeth turned back to him. He laid the heavy fabric on her shoulders and then pinned the golden button that was positioned near her collarbone. He pulled open the door, stepped aside, and let Elizabeth through. Before he followed the young queen out, he snuck another glance up at Kat. Her indefinite expression was still there and he bowed his head in her direction as a sign of gratitude and then headed out, closing the door behind him.

Elizabeth waited for him, throwing her hood over her head as protection from the cold. It had snowed much since her coronation and the frozen rain covered the ground, buildings, and naked trees around them. It wasn't too much, however, and one could still walk upon it without tripping or sinking into the dusty white.

Arthur offered his arm and she curved her hand around his elbow. Together they walked through the snow, perhaps a little quicker than necessary. He watched their boots step in time with one another as he searched for the right words to say. There was so much to say, too much to talk about, and he had no idea where to start. He chewed on his bottom lip and his heart starting to gain speed; _this is it—now or never._

He looked at her hood and inhaled a shaky breath: "Elizabeth, I—"

"Hush, don't speak yet," she interrupted in a quiet voice—it could barely be caught above the sound of their boots crunching over the snow.

He did as she instructed and kept his mouth shut, trusting her reasoning. For a short while, the munching snow and chilly winds was all he heard throughout the seemingly empty land, but as they neared the stables, he flinched slightly when two horsemen greeted them unexpectedly.

"Good morning, Your Majesty." The young men lowered themselves onto one knee before Elizabeth, and she stopped to give them a pleasant smile and a nod of the head.

"Good morning, gentlemen. How are the horses today?"

One man with the faint outline of a mustache stood up and replied, "Freshly groomed and stuffed with hay, my queen. May we offer our assistance in preparing for your morning hunt?"

"No, thank you. Just Arthur and I are going out, so there's no need for such concerns. I believe the two of us can ready weapons and steeds that we have handled before, don't you agree?"

"Uh, why yes, of course," answered the second horseman as he stumbled to his feet, dusting off snow from his right knee. Elizabeth didn't say much; she only tugged on Arthur's arm to guide them toward the upcoming stables, leaving the poor bastards stuttering in confusion.

"Er, well, enjoy your hunt, Your Majesty! A-And to you as well, Sir England!"

She didn't turn back to look at them, but instead, raised her gloved hand in the air and twirled it slightly. "Thank you, gentlemen."

Arthur snorted quietly as he heard the horsemen slowly walk away. "What a cruel puzzle you just threw them into. It's normal—necessary, really—for the ruler to have a whole entourage with them wherever they go, especially during outings such as these."[3]

"Yes, however…" She peeked at him through her hood. "Do you wish to speak with me or not?"

He pursed his lips tightly.

They made it to the stone-made stables that housed several horses and even more weapons. Arthur pushed open its heavy wooden doors and was somewhat comforted by the lack of human life within the cool lodging—only awakening steeds in their stalls and sleepy hawks in their cages is all that could be seen and heard. Elizabeth let go of his arm and strolled ahead, going to greet her favorite stallion, Cannon.

"Good morning, my darling," she cooed to the horse as she ran her hand down its long, grey face. "Did you sleep well last night? It appears like you did. Are you ready for another adventure?"

Cannon nuzzled his head against her own, causing her to stumble backward a bit from his weighty nudge. Elizabeth giggled lightly and pushed back at the horse (which wasn't very effective). Her playful laugh makes Arthur's chest swell and his throat close in; he suddenly remembers why he is there.

Using his internal struggles as motivation, he moved speedily toward the weaponry on the left. Bows and arrows and hunting knives are neatly aligned upon a wooden table while swords and crossbows hung from nails on the wall. He decided to stick with the longsword on his hip (as it was his favorite weapon) but grabbed a crossbow for Elizabeth and a short hunting knife should the need to pierce a fallen animal arise.[4] He then gathered a dozen arrows and a skinny leather pack to stuff the wooden arrows into, slinging it across his back. The familiar feeling of carrying many weapons on his person strangely reassured him. Whereas confessing his care for a woman was something that _terrified_ him, the heavy and sharp armaments made him feel powerful, strong, like he could take on the world.

 _But could it help me take on Elizabeth?_ he wondered anxiously as he turned around to prepare the saddle for Cannon. _I feel as though no one can for she is one of the strongest women I have ever met._

Without saying anything, he creaked open the short door to Cannon's stall and squeezed through, grabbing the simple leather saddle perching on the side of the stall. He was painfully aware of Elizabeth's eyes on his back as he slung the saddle upon the grey steed's strong back and bent down to connect the buckles beneath his stomach. The silence between them killed his confidence quickly and, with his blood rushing to his cheeks, he muttered bitterly to Elizabeth, "Why don't you make yourself useful and prepare the bridle?"

A chuckle erupted from her and from the corner of his eye, he spotted her curtsey lowly to him and say mockingly, "Of course, Your Majesty. Anything for you."

He frowned, and she hopped away, his face on fire once again. _She has a terrible habit of making me blush so easily. Does she do that on purpose?_ He gritted his teeth, slightly annoyed. _Knowing her, probably so._

He finished buckling Cannon's saddle and then moved to the next stall where the horse Vessel was kept, a strong stallion that was the color of walnuts with a milk white streak upon his forehead. Before he could reach for his saddle, Elizabeth came up behind him and offered a black bridle to him. She had a faint smile on her lips and the look in her eyes appeared genuine with kindness. His bashfulness got the best of him as he took a hold of the suede reins and stuffed Vessel's head through the bridle.

Eventually both horses were ready, and Arthur and Elizabeth wrapped the loose reins around their knuckles and led the animals out the stable doors. Once they were back in the snow, Arthur slid one of his arms through the reins of Vessel's bridle and offered a hand to assist Elizabeth getting onto her horse. When she saw his open palm, she looked up at him and smirked sarcastically before lifting herself onto Cannon's saddle without so much a huff. She peered down at him and then held out her hand. "I'll take my crossbow now, good sir," she asked with a playful wink.

He couldn't resist the small tilt at the corner of his lips, despite how much he wanted not to. He handed over the weapon and she waited patiently for him to mount his own horse.

Before he can be fully settled in though, Elizabeth threw him a wild smile and declared in a loud voice, "Catch me if you can!"

She snapped the reins against Cannon's sides and the steed did what he did best: shoot off like a cannonball.

His eyes widened slightly at Elizabeth's purple cloak fly out behind her like an eagle's wings. "W-Wait, Eliza—!" He bit his bottom lip and gripped Vessel's leathery reigns, kicking the horse's sides. Vessel whinnied frustratingly but sprinted after the other steed. Clumps of snow flew out from beneath Vessel's hooves and the harsh cold wind smacked Arthur's face. He kept his eyes locked on Elizabeth's back, on Cannon's rapid legs as he guided Vessel pass the naked trees, desperate to catch up to his queen.

Elizabeth glanced back at him with that same reckless grin on her face, her laugh reverberating against the open space and white snow. Though his heart still pounded out of sudden fear of losing sight of the queen, his demeanor shifted when he saw that look she gave him. It was joy and care—she was giving him all her attention and she was the one way ahead of him, miles away it seemed. He couldn't remember the last time someone, mortal or not, provided such kindness and devotion to him and his own crooked smile spread wide across his face. He accepted her invitation of adventure and urged Vessel faster, his own jubilant laugh echoing after her.

He didn't know how long they galloped like that, with their horses' legs faster than the winter wind that bit at their cheeks, but he knew it had to be some time for when they slowed to a stop, not a distant figure of a building, animal, or man could be seen from anywhere. They were deep in this white forest, completely and utterly alone.

Panting from adrenaline, Elizabeth brushed away a free strand of bouncy hair from her eyes, that energetic smile lingering on her lips. "Whew! Either you're the only one who can keep up with my demanding pace or Vessel is a much stronger stallion than I give him credit for."

"I sincerely hope you aren't considering the latter," he replied in a disappointing tone, pulling the reins back so that Vessel would slowly trot over to Cannon.

"Why? Afraid of being second to a noble steed?" she laughed.

"Yes, precisely so. You are comparing a man who has charged into countless wars and battles either by his own legs or a trained stallion to a large animal who jogs and eats hay for a living."

"Don't take it personally." She ruffled Cannon's short black hair. "I sometimes believe that steeds are much kinder and more reliable than most humans. That is why Cannon is my favorite—he's faster than any other of my horses, faster than a bullet perhaps."

"Your personal collection of horses are not meant to fly with the wind; you need warhorses if you desire to reach such a pace."

"Ah, is that so? Well then, I guess I'll have to find some, so my entourage can achieve that rapidity without growing so tired so quickly." Her beam broadened. "Or you and I are to be permanent riding partners."

The rejoicing feeling that kept his smile bright and eyes aglow fell almost instantly, being swapped with confusion and bitterness. What was happening? Not a moment ago, she looked at him like he was somehow the most interesting thing in the whole world. He (once again) somehow knew this because it was the same look she gave him when he held her as an infant while a thunderstorm raged on, when she gripped the back of his coat on a rare sunny day at Hatfield, when he demanded to know what Thomas Seymour did to her shortly after his execution, when she asked him what it was like to be eternal before kissing him full on the mouth. But whenever she said things like that or acted as though nothing ever happened, any hope dwelling within his mind would diminish like the mighty wind to a candle's flame.

He sniffed bluntly and said, "Riding partner, business associate, or lover: which do you want me to be? Make up your mind, woman, because I cannot stand this baffling game you're playing. Well? Which is it?"

Elizabeth jolted at Arthur's sudden blast of heated words. Her grin vanished as did her spirited aura; she now looked at him like a lone deer staring down the barrel of a gun, realizing its doomed fate. He hated that look on her and wanted it to change back, so he sighed lowly and shook his head, attempting to backtrack himself.

"Look, you must've realized what I wished to speak with you about—you brought us out here, into the vacant woods so no other soul could hear this discussion. You know what I want to know, you know what you're doing, so I might as well save my breath and let you do the explaining. No more delaying, Elizabeth."

She didn't say anything (which he more or less expected). Her ill-fated doe stare faded and was replaced with a far-off, distant look. A tiny frown shaped her lips and her gaze was locked onto a skinny tree trunk a few meters from them. This was a rare state for her to be in—shame, that is—and Arthur helped her get started with the clarification she owed him. His cheeks burned a little (and not from the cold) as he softly asked, "Do you love me or not?"

Her head snapped to him. "Yes, of course I do. You know that."

His heart skipped, but he reminded it to not get ahead of himself. "Then why are you trying to conceal it from me?"

"That's not what I'm—" She broke off, chewing on her lower lip. "I'm not trying to hurt you, Arthur. Please know that."

Her voice was desperate, pleading for his forgiveness. She no longer wore a mask of professionalism like she did at court or around the castle. Instead she was herself: a mere mortal, an emotional girl given an enormous duty, a human being deeply in love.

His tone was a little anxious as well: "But why do you look at me as the same as everyone else? These last couple weeks I haven't gotten a word, a stare, a touch, or some other form of a sign of your affection at all. You ask me questions and speak to me like I'm Cecil[5] or another council member. But I'm not, aren't I? Because of that night, you led me to believe that I take up most of your attention but now I don't—"

"Please don't think I'm trying to dismiss you!" she interrupted, her face twisted into a form of emotional pain with her light eyebrows upturned and her brown eyes glossy from threatening tears. "It kills my soul to know that you think like that. You're everything to me which is why I'm like this. I'm trying to think this relationship through rationally; my job as your lover is to give all my heart and soul to you, my whole person, but my job as your monarch is to bring peace and financial glory to your land and people. The two constantly battle in my mind and it's so difficult, Arthur. They are two completely different occupations that cannot intermingle and I want to, need to excel at each one." Her voice cracked a little and two slippery tears, one from each pleading eye, slid down her cheeks; she didn't bother wiping them away. "I'm sorry. I'm just looking out for you, in every way I can."

He stared at her, completely mute, totally deaf to his surroundings. This confession had an entirely different effect on him than the confession outside Westminster Abbey did. There Elizabeth was truthful but a little annoyed at him—now she was still being truthful though very sensitive and apologetic. At her coronation, he felt intrigued, but now he felt flabbergasted and maybe a little regretful. He had no idea the extension of Elizabeth's love and loyalty for him and here he was, accusing her of not feeling the same way as she did before. He tensed, his grip on Vessel's reins tightening. Why wasn't she criticizing him on his faithfulness for her? As far as he knew, he hadn't done anything.

Elizabeth smeared her tears away and choke out a little laugh. "I must've gave Kat quite a fright. I nearly ambushed her after I spoke with Cecil that night. I told her to never tell another soul about what she'd seen and what she heard. I even said that if she gave any indication to anyone about you and I that I would consider that as a personal attack and stick her in the Tower. Poor thing. I must've sounded like the devil itself."

Arthur widened his eyes. "You said that? To your closest and most trusted friend?"

She nodded sadly. "I didn't want anyone else knowing. Can you imagine the uproar? 'The newly queen has been spotted in an intimate embrace with her country.' I fear my people would overthrow me the next morning and if not my people, then perhaps another country like Spain or France."

"I had that same fear as well."

"So you know why this must be kept a secret. You must know something of my intentions to not say anything of the like to you in public or among my Privy Council."

He glanced down at his gloveless hands, at his knuckles bulging underneath his white skin. He did know why, but it didn't occur to him until now. The English government and everyone in Europe would complain that the love growing between he and Elizabeth was a childish fantasy and try to pair his queen with another prince or duke. Countries weren't allowed to have special assignments or have a certain rank, much less be in a romantic relationship with someone. Everyone was a business partner and it was usually the king's job to keep his country alive and well; people were supposed to do things for him, he was the everlasting guest of honor. _No one_ would support the unlikely pairing of Arthur Kirkland and Elizabeth Tudor.

"What…is this?" he asked her. "A courtship of some sort?"

She paused briefly before carefully slipping off her left glove. She showed him her hand which had two rings encircling her fingers—one was on her thumb, a simple silver band that Kat had given to her for a Christmas present one year. The other was her coronation ring on her third finger, a golden band with tiny purple jewels studded along it. "As far as I know, I've been in a diplomatic engagement with you for two weeks now, as have all monarchs before me," she answered, not thinking much on the subject.

Both of them gazed at the ring; Elizabeth looked at it like it was a badge or a written letter that could get her into the private parts of the castle. Arthur stared at it like it was a sudden solution to his problems, an answered omen from above. _A diplomatic engagement, coronation ring, some sort of courtship…_

She went to slide her hand back into her leather glove, but Arthur jerked out and quickly grabbed it before she could. His unexpected lurch caused Vessel to stumble a bit, nickering grumpily as he lightly bumped against Cannon, who also whinnied pitifully.

"Wait!" he called out frantically. Elizabeth flinched again, but didn't tear her limb away from him. She watched him gawk at her queenly ring.

"That's it," he whispered to himself before squeezing her hand and glancing up at her. She only caught on when he proposed to her, "Marry me, Elizabeth."

At first, her expression didn't change or shift in the slightest (she must've thought that she misheard him), but the longer he gaped at her and refuse to let go of her hand, her dark eyes slowly widened and her lips split open into a small O. "I beg your pardon?"

"Marry me," he repeated, this time with more bravery in his tone and with the corner of his lips tilting upward. "Marry me before someone else asks for your hand."

She adjusted her lips into a frown and pried her bony hand away from him. "Did you not hear to what I just said?" She looked around them like a hawk seeking some prey. "This cannot go public. The people will—"

"Nothing will go public." He tried to position himself in her line of sight (which kept on switching every now and then), so he moved Vessel around Cannon's body to face Elizabeth as much as he could. "Secrecy will be our guardian: I will seek for a priest who will perform the ceremony and swear to keep it a secret from all who he knows. The setting will be somewhere exclusive, like these unoccupied woods, and we can ask Kat to be our only witness to make it official. I will even construct the wedding bands myself—rings and jewelry often adorn our attire, especially yours, so no one would know the difference if an extra golden ring is added to the collection." His curved smile broadened, which portrayed his confidence and sureness in this special mission. "No one would ever suspect a thing."

Hesitation hung in Elizabeth's atmosphere, but then her frown deepened and she leaned over to pluck an arrow from the sack slung across Arthur's back. Her face was close to his during the process and she whispered out, "You're foolish to believe such a plot would work" before sloping back and hopping off Cannon, locating the arrow fixedly within her crossbow.

Arthur leapt off as well, not letting her go off that easily. "Look, I know privacy is a rare pleasure that a monarch can enjoy," he sympathized, jogging to catch up beside her. "But trust me, after living throughout Tudor dynasty, there are some opportunities that I can open for this cause. I'll inform guards and servants to keep on one side of the castle, so they won't catch us escaping anytime during the day or night. The ceremony will be on a Sunday when council meetings are closed and no guests are expected to show up to see your presence. I know what I'm doing; I won't let anything slip through."

The arrow clicked into place, but Elizabeth still didn't look up to meet his eyes. "All it takes to ruin it is one set of eyes, Arthur," she muttered under her breath. "One set of eyes and a loud mouth is all it takes to break us down, to collapse everything we've worked for. I can't risk that. My already-unsteady grasp on this throne will be casted off and your reputation among your fellow countries will be demolished. I'm sorry, but I can't do this."

She lifted her crossbow to aim at any unsuspecting rabbit or doe nearby; Arthur placed his hand on the pulled arrow daringly and pushed it back down toward the snow.

"You can't or you won't?" he asked her.

She glared at him. "I said I can't."

She tried to yank the weapon out of his hands, but his grasp on it was too tight.

"But you want to," he clarified, reading between the lines. "The _want_ for something is always stronger, whether the _can_ is efficient or not."

A bright blush overcame the queen's cheeks as she tugged harder on the crossbow. "Give me my weapon, Arthur."

"What, so you can shoot me for speaking your mind?"

"I know you won't die from the impact, but it'll certainly hurt and send my message across," she growled. It was laughable, really—the way Elizabeth jerked and pulled on the crossbow like how a child would to a favorite toy. He let out a low chuckle to which Elizabeth shot him a dangerous look. "Are you laughing at me?"

"Yes, you're very amusing. You always have been."

Giving up in frustration, she let go with a scoff and pushed against his chest. "Don't give me compliments in a poor attempt to get me to agree to this impossible marriage."

He placed the crossbow on the snow and, giving it a second thought, pushed it with his foot further to the side (just in case). He looked at her flushed face, her big brown eyes, her ruby lips. Without processing what he was doing, his stiff fingers slowly reached out and brushed along her pointed chin. Elizabeth stood still and stared back at him as they traveled up to her full, red lips; he remembered how it felt like when she had her mouth on his and he realized he missed the feeling. He grinned absentmindedly and mumbled out, "Lizzie, you of all people should know that nothing is impossible."

She cracked into a surprised and wide smile shortly before he stooped in to softly press his lips against hers.

He was shocked at his own actions and ideas (he just called her Lizzie, for crying out loud, that little nickname she asked him to refer to her by when she was young), but he was in too deep to ponder them for long. He figured Elizabeth must've been as well for she didn't fight back or protest to his gestures. It was a different take: she was usually the one who enjoyed seducing him and sending charming smiles and winks in his direction, but now the tables had turned; she was the one underneath his spell. He never thought he'd see the day—or imagine it for that matter—yet here they were.

As their mouths worked together and his heavy cloak fell around his shoulders, enveloping them in a warm embrace, his numb hands tossed back her hood and then folded them around the back of her head, his thumbs gently grazing her sharp jawline. She didn't recoil from his cold fingers, but rather melted into them like they were the flicker of warmth she needed and craved. He felt her hands clutch at the front of his jacket and pull tightly against her, closing any space that existed between them. Because of this, he could vaguely feel her heart pound speedily against him—or was that his own?

Unlike their first kiss back at Westminster Hall which was quick and a little startling, this one was slow and much more mesmerizing. They were in the middle of nowhere—no unwanted visitor could spoil this moment and he wanted to make it last. For once he wished to be greedy and keep what was in front of him for himself. Unspoken confessions of his love for her passed through his chapped lips and icy fingertips and onto her skin. He felt like she knew this already with her grip on his jacket and the smile he could still vaguely feel the presence of. But he wanted to tell her again and again until all the breath left his lungs and his legs could no longer contain the strength to carry his weight.

But, like all things, the tender touches came to an end.

Elizabeth wrapped her hands around his and pulled them back from her face. "Wait, stop," she breathed, her cheeks red and burning, her hair a bit disheveled and sagging from her bun.

Reality struck Arthur like a ton of stones. As his eyes observed his flustered queen, he grew embarrassingly aware of what he just did. His body stiffened, and he began to apologize profusely: "I'm so sorry, Elizabeth. I didn't—"

"Stop." She exhaled into the winter air which pushed through her lips like a dragon's fiery breath. Hesitancy filled her speech for a moment and then she smiled sweetly at him, squeezing his hands in reassurance. "There's nothing to apologize for."

Her fingers slipped from his and she stepped back, undoing the failing bun on the back of her head. She pulled out a few pins and he watched in awkwardness as it fell around her shoulders and hugged her waist. She turned slightly away, gathering her thick locks in her hands so she could bunch it back up into a curly ball on her head.

The humiliation weighed down on Arthur's shoulders like Jesus carrying the cross over his back. _I've never done anything like that in my entire existence. What the hell overpowered me just now? It made me feel…bold, and…like I was on top of the world with the most beautiful girl…_

His fingernails dug into his palms as all the blood in his body rushed to his face. _Stop thinking such things! You're making it worse for yourself!_

"I…see your reasoning and careful planning services," he heard Elizabeth mumble.

He peeked at her; she was stuffing the last of the pins into her hair, her gaze aimed at her fallen crossbow. She regained some of her composure, though a faint shade of pink could be seen across her piercing cheekbones. She paused momentarily before facing him with the tiniest of smiles. "Therefore, I accept your proposal and trust that you know what you are doing."

He felt the ground beneath him begin to sway and he stumbled back a step or two. He wasn't even sure if he heard her correctly, but still his heart thudded against his ribcage like an anxious knocker and he temporarily forgot how to breathe. "I'm sor—"

"But we mustn't cause any suspicion among the people," she went on calmly, ignoring his beet-colored face. "I intend to bring harmony to this land and once they hear that I married a man who can't offer me power or money or precious jewels, Parliament will try to throw me off the throne."

It sounded harsh—the way she worded his entitlement—but it was true. Her council was trying to set her up with rich and powerful kings from other countries and the option of him would have _never_ crossed their minds. Nothing like this had ever happened in history, as far as he knew.

He thought dreadfully as he chewed on his bottom lip and then mumbled out, "Will you try to balance two marriages? One for your people and one for…us?" The assumption of her being married to another man whilst maintaining one with him formed a jealous knot in his chest, but just the thought of her really and honestly accepting his out-of-the-blue marriage proposal made the word _us_ much more difficult to say without feeling giddy.

An immediate frown creased her lips and eyebrows like he just addressed a rather obvious and stupid subject. "Of course not! Marriage means to be loving and faithful to _one_ person. I will not be like the rest of the world and move through marriages like they're merely business projects. That wouldn't be fair to you."

Arthur bit on the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling too broadly. _She really does love me…_ he thought dreamily.

Her eyes scanned at the naked trees and bright white snow around them. "I have made claims to the council that I will not marry therefore I must keep them believing just that." She smirked and threw a cheeky side glance at him, adding sarcastically, "You utterly ruined my intention, you sneaky bastard."

He chuckled and glanced down at their limp hands. He took hold of her left hand and lifted it up, playing with her slender fingers and tracing her coronation ring. "I wouldn't call it _ruined_ ," he replied as he outlined her pointer finger with his own.

He caught her sinking her teeth into her bottom lip to keep from grinning like the lovestruck fool she was from the corner of his eye. "Either way, I must stay single in the international marriage market," she continued, trying to not to show her palpable joy to the best of her ability. "Parliament and my privy council will most likely be immensely frustrated with me, but it must be done."

She paused and then added, "I'll be a Virgin Queen."[6]

Arthur glanced at her. "A Virgin Queen?"

"Yes. If that were to be my reputation, then everyone would know that they will never win my hand or take my country from me. I may be a woman and I may be physically frail, but I have a mind and motivation like a king. I must present myself like them if I am to gain any sort of respect, including the attire, the knowledge, and the authority of a king." She smiled, full of hope. "I shall rain good fortune upon you; Spain's empire may be strong, but so am I."

He smiled back at her. "I know you are." He then straightened his posture and cleared his throat theatrically (which caused Elizabeth to giggle) and added, "Now I feel I must perform the rest of this proposal formally in order to make it official, so do bear with me."

As he said this, he lowered himself onto one knee with Elizabeth's left hand still firmly grasped in both of his. With his eyes locked onto hers and a small smile etching his cheeks, he told her, "I have no doubts that you will bring light and amity to this kingdom, be an inspiring monarch to all who witness you, so let me do the same for you. I promise to love and cherish you for as long as I shall live, even long after your soul departs from this earth. Not only will I stand proudly by your side as your country, but also as your husband, lover, and best friend. No barbarous kings or brutal invasions or threatening nations could ever tear me from your warm light. My dear Lizzie, will you marry me?"

She smiled fondly at her nickname and squeezed his fingers. "Of course I will."

His smile grew and his heart skipped as he carefully placed his lips against Elizabeth's knuckles.

* * *

[1] Though Protestant, Elizabeth aimed to create a peaceful coexistence between Catholics and Protestants in England. She argued that both religions had one God to worship and didn't enforce any strict laws like Edward IV or Mary I to convert to one religion or the other. Throughout her reign, majority of her subjects were Protestant and the country somehow maintain stable ground on the touchy subject (unlike Spain, France, Germany, and the rest of Europe during the time).

[2] Elizabeth, like her father, loved to hunt. She had endless amounts of energy and would be out for hours and easily tire out her ladies and hunting partners with how fast and how long she would make her horse gallop. In 1575 a French ambassador claimed that she killed six does with her crossbow. Even in her 60s, she would put aside special time to go out riding or hunting.

[3] Reality check: It would be virtually impossible for Elizabeth to be alone with anyone, making it extremely difficult to have any secret love affair like so many claimed of her having. The Tudor rulers always had a small group of people following them, let it be council members, personal servants, or any one of royal or noble blood. The government put it on themselves to watch every move the monarch made (they even had a servant or two sleep in the same room as them should anyone try to attack the monarch in the night), which must have been incredibly annoying (to say the least) for the kings and queens.

[4] According to English tradition, whenever a king or queen goes hunting and someone kills a deer (or any animal really), the monarch will stab it in a single fatal blow (even though it's already dead), no matter who shot down the deer. It has some symbolic meaning to it—as most English traditions do—but I'm not entirely sure what. Maybe to prove the strength of their monarch?

[5] William Cecil was kind of like Elizabeth's second-in-command in her Privy Council. Elizabeth considered him a good friend and a reliable man so she often went to him for advice or a second opinion. He stayed faithful and loyal to her for his whole life majority of her reign.

[6] Elizabeth often referred to herself as a Virgin Queen because, in Christian eyes, being a virgin was sacred and praiseworthy. The Virgin Mary was said to be the queen of heaven and the mother of God which is what Elizabeth tried to be to England and her people. By remaining single, she devoted her life to England and refused to be subjected to a foreign king and follow the rules as a wife rather than a queen. You go, girl!


	12. Cursed to Remember

****SCHOOL'S OUT, BITCHES! That means more writing, researching, and fangirling time! This chapter took longer than I thought it was gonna be but, nevertheless, I hope you enjoy it. But now that I just finished my last exam, I'm gonna go sleep for 12 hours.**

 **Carry on, my wayward sons! (wrong fandom, I know)****

 _30 March 2017_

Arthur made it off the ferry with very little conversation with Francis; _obviously the stars have aligned for this to happen,_ he believed with a heavy huff. It mainly had to do with Kiku trying to keep up with different topics of discussion with him ( _poor lad, that's probably the most I've ever heard him speak_ ) while Antonio just went on with being his happy, talkative self—of course, Francis wouldn't dare to interrupt his dear friend's busy chatter just to annoy or poke at Arthur a bit more.

He still felt Francis's spying eyes glimpse at his back or shoulder from time to time. It might have looked like an innocent glance to any witnesses surrounding them, but it felt like a drill penetrating through his brain. He grimaced and tried to be the two thousand-year-old man he was and ignore the prying eyes while honestly responding to Kiku's focuses of discussion.

He scanned the orange sky above them and the hectic streets of New York City. The countries around him either made their final goodbyes to one another with handshakes or friendly hugs or they started heading for the city, some going solo while others clustered together in small groups or pairs. He sensed Kiku's presence coming up behind him, so he turned around to properly face him.

"If it's strictly American food you seek," he informed him, "then you can purchase a nice size heart attack at nearly every street corner. Type two diabetes is also sold regularly here and I'm not entirely certain how you'll manage."

Kiku slipped in a tiny smirk as he combed his fingers through his long bangs. "You say such vulgar things about Mr. America's home—I think it's safe to say that you won't be staying here much longer?"

"That's right. My queen requested me back at the palace as soon as possible, which is why I am to board a plane first thing in the morning."

Though it was true that he booked a flight to London that departed at eight the next morning, it was false that his current queen demanded him to be back immediately. In fact, she even told him to take a break, to spend some time away from occupational matters.

And now, with visions of his deceased wife slowly taking control of his thoughts, he was exceptionally glad that he didn't directly obey his queen's orders—all he wanted right now was to go back home.

Kiku nodded. "Understandable. It seems like you are stuck with business at the moment, so I won't take too much of your time if you are to get up early tomorrow morning."

Arthur shook his head and started to tell him that there was nothing to worry about, but Kiku spoke before he had a chance to; his small eyes blinked at something behind Arthur's shoulder and his thin eyebrows raised in interest.

"Ah, I'm very sorry, but I would like to schedule appointments with Mr. Russia and China before they leave. One moment, please."

He turned his head to watch Kiku lightly jog over to the two countries who were exchanging notes with one another; they both were apparently on the same page as Kiku.

"So, your queen wants you back home, n'est pas?"[1]

The curious voice of Francis made Arthur clamp his teeth together in mild (but rising) irritation. He snapped toward him with an obvious look of disdain; Francis was looking at him with elevated eyebrows and an indistinct smile.

"Yes, she does, you eavesdropping pecker. I have other and more important matters to attend to."

Francis hummed and nodded in mock understanding, shoving his hands in his pockets. He casually rolled his eyes to the multicolored sky before landing them back onto Arthur.

"Which one are you returning to: Elizabeth I or Elizabeth II?"

He knew Francis was aware of his inner mourning of Elizabeth, but that snarky response totally threw him off and his jaw dropped in utter offence. He glared at him like how a lion would to a zebra, his fingernails digging deep into the leather handle of his suitcase.

"How dare you make such a revolting and cynical comment to me? Not to mention completely unnecessary," he growled, stepping toward him threateningly. He made sure to keep his voice low—there were way too many people here. "Why are you so persistent to get caught up in my personal dealings?"

"I usually find myself asking why I even try speak to you at all," Francis replied, that faint smile now gone. "But, believe it or not, I want to help you."

A snort escaped him as he stumbled back, honestly not believing what he just said. "You want to help me? My God, that is the stupidest thing I've heard all day. I didn't think it could be done, with the meeting and all, but congratulations, Frog: you've managed to top it all off."

A long and angry exhale blew out of Francis's nostrils, but he didn't break or snap back. "I'm being serious, Arthur. I know what you're going through and it is…" He temporarily closed his eyes to calm himself. "…very hard."

"You have _no idea_ what I'm going through—you don't know anything."

"I know _exactly_ what you're going through. Bottling up your emotions like this is only going to make things worse for you and besides, everyone here knows about you and Elizabeth, so what are you so desperately trying to hide?"

"No one was supposed to know! She just got upset is all; everyone kept poking and prodding for her to marry someone, so much that they thought something was wrong with her. [2] That wasn't her fault—she was just protecting me." Arthur was getting too caught up in the argument to realize what he was spilling out of his mouth.

"You're clinging to a memory, Arthur, a skeleton. If you won't let go, then the constant remembrance of her will consume you whole like a parasite. You'll be cut off from the outside world and all you'll ever feel—"

" _She is not a parasite!"_

His shout surprised them both as it reverberated and reached other ears. Most simply glanced up, recognized the two debaters, sighed deeply, and then returned to whatever it was they were doing. Apparently, Arthur and Francis have been personal enemies for such a long time that their arguments had become a force of habit for them to bear over the years. They always fight over something, so the wise have learned to avoid getting involved.

More self-conscious than ever before, Arthur bit on his tongue but quickly released it, not quite done with Francis yet. He stepped closer to him once more as he hissed through his teeth, "Your help isn't wanted, nor will it ever be. I forbid you to even speak her name—it sounds like pure vile coming from your mouth. Fuck off, ignorant bastard."

He went to turn sharply on his heel, but Francis grabbed his arm before he could get away. "This conversation isn't over yet," he growled back.

"And I say it is. Now unhand me." He tried yanking his limb back, but he felt Francis's nails sink through his jacket and into his flesh, the grip similar to that of a leech. Arthur gritted his teeth. "I said _unhand me_."

He saw the intense glare Francis gave him; it was like watching a nasty hurricane brewing at sea. "Listen to me just this once, you limey brat. There are things that I know that you don't, despite what your selfish brain might think. I know how to recover from the pain that comes whenever you lose someone dear to you. Apparently, you haven't learned that lesson yet; let me help you, dammit!"

"Give me one good reason why I should. Your own people haven't received this 'message' either; they don't even know what real love is. Speaking of which, how's that neck scar from your revolution healing up?"[3]

Francis jolted at the harsh insult, causing him to step back and loosen his grasp on Arthur's arm—he took the opportunity and jerked it back. With furrowed brows and a deep frown on his face, Arthur straightened and dusted his sleeve like Francis's touch was that of a corpse, leaving his skin cold and infested with maggots. He glared menacingly. "Are you done now?"

It took a moment, but Francis eventually replaced his hurt expression with a hard grudgeful stare. "I should've known that you were a hopeless cause," he mumbled, giving up. "Nothing can change your mind."

"Mr. Britain? Mr. France?"

A brave Kiku interrupted the bickering between the two countries; he came just in time before Arthur could hurl another verbal offense Francis's way. They both heard the man, saw him standing to the side with a tired yet concerned look, but neither turned nor stepped away from the other. Instead, their narrowed gazes stayed locked on each other, daring one another to back down.

Kiku approached Arthur though kept on switching his glance between the two blonds like they were vicious dogs preparing to tear each other's throats out. "Now isn't the best time for…debates," he mumbled to them. "We're in public, surrounded by citizens; you're beginning to cause a scene."

Arthur didn't have to look up to see if what Kiku said was true—he could feel several pairs of eyes on his person. Francis was the first to shift his gaze away, realization present in his now wide eyes. It was only then that Arthur relaxed somewhat when the Frenchman finally gave up (just like always). He wanted to have the last laugh however, so he tugged on his suit collar, loosened his grip on his suitcase, and mentioned causally, "Neither my stubborn mind or your weak will have changed over the years, France—looks like one of us hasn't learned that lesson yet."

He half-expected him to sneer back or annoyingly toss his hair to the side like an egotistical teenage girl, but he merely gave a faithless stare—all hope vanished, leaving behind the bare expression of despair. Arthur didn't give it a second thought as he spun around and briskly walked away with Kiku trailing behind.

Rage controlled his legs, moving speedily through the much-crowded sidewalks and streets. Usually the switch of drivers on the right side of the road made him double-check himself before crossing, but this time, he failed to even see if the light was green or red. He stormed through packs of citizens, frequently bumping into their shoulders or elbows. Cabs screeched to a stop and honked at him whenever he absentmindedly crossed their path like a sulking black cat. Kiku, though occasionally had to squeeze pass tourists with a mumbled "Excuse me", kept up with his desired pace pretty well—all that traffic in downtown Tokyo made him well-experienced to say the least.

 _Fucking bastard!_ Arthur ranted in his mind, jaw clenched and eyes sharpened. _I ought to bash his brains in or cut out his tongue for speaking such bullshit. Who does he think he is, offering his "assistance" to me? Does he seriously believe I trust him in the slightest? He's a bigger idiot than I ever thought, claiming he knows the pain of losing someone like Elizabeth. He doesn't know anything; he didn't have to witness his wife spiral down into an endless depression or suffer from a bout of smallpox that nearly took her from me. **[4]** _

He stopped abruptly and angrily dragged the back of his wrist across his eyes once he felt them stinging with threatening tears. He tried to calm himself down for the hundredth time that day by taking a deep breath through his nostrils and out his mouth. A horrible knot formed in his ribcage and it weighed so much that his shoulders slumped forward in exhaustion just from carrying it. He glanced up at the short brick building he halted at and noticed a familiar sign that was plastered above the doorway—in italics it read Roberta's.

"Mr. Britain? Are you alright?" Kiku's breathless voice sounded from behind Arthur. He straightened his tie and brushed away some of his black fringe from his eyes. "Mr. Britain?"

"Here it is," he mumbled, swallowing a lump in his throat.

"E-Excuse me?"

He looked to Kiku and pointed at the red sign. "Here it is: the one restaurant in Brooklyn that I don't mind."

Blinking in mild confusion, Kiku glimpsed upward. "Oh…I don't think I've been here before."

"America introduced me to this place a few years back; it's not too bad. Should we grab a pint here?"

Kiku's dark eyes met Arthur's, paused for a moment, and then nodded his head. "Perhaps we both could use a glass of wine."

His crooked grin slowly etched up his face. He was very grateful that Kiku went along with Arthur's pretend game of everything being alright—for the next few moments at least.

When they entered the condensed restaurant, Arthur was both surprised and relieved that not too many people were there. Plenty of noise bounced against the rough brick walls however: customers chatting, plates clattering, servers hollering orders to chefs, glasses sliding across the polished tables. The strong smell of Americanized-Italian food and alcoholic drinks wafted through the air. A long wooden counter sat at the back where cooks in tall white hats could be seen flipping pizza dough and mixing ingredients; kids pressed their hands against the smudged glass that separated them from their orders as they observed the cooking process with curious wonder. Dull yellow Christmas lights hung from the cluttered walls and some popular American song played from the loudspeakers overhead.

Normally, this sort of venue would make Arthur's nose crinkle in mild displeasure at its informality and busy mess. When Alfred first brought him to Roberta's and he did just that, Alfred snorted, saying, "You're too old-fashioned, England—like 1781-old-fashioned. Why don't you liven up a little and try not to be so judgey? People nowadays like just sitting around, eating some pizza, and _not_ talking about politics or some boring shit."

Back then, the comment irritated him, so he fired some snarky reply toward Alfred that he couldn't recall. But now, as his gaze slowly rounded the room, finding happy faces and true smiles, a strange easement lowered his shoulders a bit. This was his preferred restaurant in America because it reminded him how carefully Alfred paid attention to his citizens' enjoyments and to do the same to his own citizens, to realize that there was more to his job than carrying out his ruler's orders.

He figured he could use the inspiration right now.

The two countries sat at a table next to a small square window where they could see the New York City lights beginning to beam. Kiku appeared interested in his surroundings—his head whirled about like a parrot, capturing everything the room offered to them. He continued studying the people, furniture, decorations, and menu while they situated themselves and gave their orders to a young waitress with two black braids.

"I honestly didn't think you'd enjoy the scenery this much, Japan," Arthur eventually remarked.

Kiku spun back around and blinked, a little embarrassed. "Ah, my apologies. This place just reminds me of a certain sushi bar in Kyoto that I sometimes go to."

He placed his chin upon his fist and flicked his eyes across the room once more. "Why is it that American soil retells our own countries, our own histories?"

He didn't plan for the conversation to turn so somber so quickly, but without any other personifications around them and with the rare comfort of a friend, he couldn't help but to jump onto the opportunity.

Kiku paused, thinking. "Mr. America's country is very diverse; we must've influenced them greatly." He hesitated again before asking, "Are you alright?"

Arthur didn't respond. He didn't need to; he knew Kiku already knew the answer, so he wasn't going to admit it out loud. Kiku nodded and stared at the wood etchings on the table. "Usually I try to conceal any emotional response I might get and remain professional, no matter what the situation. It works most of the time, but, if I am to be honest, there were certain situations where I failed to keep it under control."

Arthur moved his gaze toward the Japanese man, surprised at how open he was being. Kiku shifted his weight uncomfortably and straightened his posture—even now he tried keeping his composure in check. "During the second world war, I gained much land and power. My empire grew rapidly when I joined the Axis Powers. I didn't let the genocides or massacres affect me too much; I viewed it as business, as a way of showing China my worth."[5] He peeked at him. "I hope you understand my situation somewhat?"

He pondered. "To a certain degree, I suppose so."

Kiku nodded once more and continued: "I was so focused on spreading my empire that I didn't realize what I was doing was wrong or that it'd all eventually lead to my downfall. I remained professional and calm during invasions and battles; I didn't even flinch when I assisted in the attack on Pearl Harbor.[6] But I finally broke when Alfred bombed Nagasaki."[7]

He scratched his forearm, his thin eyebrows twitching slightly. "Hiroshima, of course, upset me as well, but I did everything within my power to hold it in. I was deathly afraid of what he would do next, so I requested Mr. Germany's presence at my headquarters to discuss any plans of attack. He arrived two days later, but the preparations were all in vain. During the conference, one of my men burst into the room, exclaiming that Nagasaki had just been bombed. I…was utterly shocked to say the least, and I refused to believe it at first; Hiroshima was destroyed only a few days ago. How could something so terrible happen so quickly? I got on one of the planes that was heading for Nagasaki with several medics and soldiers onboard. Mr. Germany advised me not to go, to stay and construct an attack against Mr. America, but I couldn't. That's what I did when Hiroshima fell, and I had to see the damage for myself. Mr. Germany reluctantly came with me."

Kiku closed his eyes and exhaled. "I won't describe the horrors I saw—I'm certain you have an idea of what it was like. I couldn't even exit the plane I was so scared. I was scared of facing my citizens which, in the back of my mind, I knew was irrational. They've never seen me before, they didn't know who I was. But I blamed myself for it all; I could've prevented all those deaths and destructions if I just hadn't poke the sleeping bear. My self-possession was unstable and Mr. Germany tried helping me regain myself. Poor Germany—I was very cruel to him. In the midst of my undoing, I called out everything we did over the past seven years. It all ambushed me: the holocaust, the bombings, the raids, the fear. Everything we created for the sake of killing. It was then when I realized that Mr. America only gave me what I deserved. Shortly afterwards, I spoke with Emperor Shōwa[8] about surrendering and he eventually agreed."

He opened his eyelids and, as usual, a balanced look remained in his brown eyes. Because of how evenly and quietly he kept his voice, Arthur almost didn't believe his story, but he knew it to be true. Many terrible things happened back then; it was enough to break the coldest of hearts.

 _You can't keep a straight face forever, Kiku,_ he told him mentally, _no matter how hard you try._

Kiku frowned slightly, frustrated with himself. "I guess what I'm trying to say is that…sometimes the feeling of losing millions of lives can be the same thing as losing one." He peeked at him. "Does that make sense?"

Arthur didn't respond immediately, but instead let Kiku's words sink into his brain and chest. The logical side of him—his brain—scolded that, when given the chance, to always pick the option that saved the most lives; he wouldn't hesitate to send a few dozen off to their deaths in order to protect hundreds. But his emotive side—his heart—would rather hold Lizzie tightly in his arms, safe and happy, while the rest of the world burned.

"It does," he answered, slumping back into his chair. "We're all just cursed to remember the losses we could've prevented or avoided; we all have our demons."

Kiku glanced down in agreement. "Yes…"

A heavy silence staggered pass them, practically drilling that unbearable curse deep into their brains. Kiku sighed again and then added quietly, "At least we can temporarily drown our demons with alcohol."

Arthur blinked at the surprising comment before bursting out a fit of laughter. Kiku flinched; he probably wasn't expecting anyone to hear him, so Arthur's even more surprising reaction startled him. The Englishman pressed a fist against his lips to smother his chuckles, but it wasn't very effective.

 _What's wrong with me? It wasn't even that funny._ He came to realize that there wasn't much humor in his laugh and guessed it was some destressing-mechanism, an odd way of dealing with the mournful atmosphere. Kiku either felt the same way or knew the reasoning behind his actions because he too began snickering.

After their brief moment of shared laughter, Kiku kept a small smile on his face and adjusted himself comfortably in his seat. "So, how is the royal family? I hope everyone is in good health?"

Arthur glanced to the side and smirked slightly, mutely thankful for Kiku's genuine curiosity. "They're quite alright. George and Charlotte have made a habit of following me around like ducklings."

Kiku's smile widened some. "There are worse things in the world; in fact, child innocence is one of the best."

"I never said I found the ducklings bothersome."

For the next half hour, the two nations (and friends) chatted about all sorts of topics while they nibbled at their food and sipped at their beverages (all of which arrived earlier than expected). They spoke of each other's homelands and their ruler's well-being, unfinished business from the meeting that Kiku was concerned with (Arthur still didn't care), but they mostly talked about themselves, catching up with the other's life from when they last saw one another several months ago. The casualness of their conversation felt nice, enjoyable. Arthur grew aware of how much he missed these sorts of gatherings, but he dared not say a word about it.

He was in the middle of draining the last of his pint when a familiar voice rang throughout the restaurant: "Kiku-chan!" He glanced up just in time to see Mei Xiao fly over to Kiku and wrap her arms around his neck.

Arthur suppressed a laugh by biting the inside of his cheek once he saw Kiku's face instantly switch into a crimson color, irrational fear and embarrassment clear on his small facial features.

"M-Mei?" He blinked rapidly with his hands spread out in front of him, not knowing what to do. "Er, Miss Taiwan, what brings you here?"

Mei stepped back from her embrace and smiled widely. "Yong Soo and I are wandering around the city, seeing what we can find. There's _so much_ to do here! I'm glad we're staying for the whole week so we can fit in as much fun as it'll allow. Hopefully you and Yao won't be working too much and will join us sometime but, knowing you, I'll have to convince Mr. Italy to take your workpapers away from you."

As Mei babbled on with a wide range of emotions and Kiku's face slowly fade into a pinkish hue, Arthur noticed the energetic Im Yong Soo burst in through the front door, whip his head around like an alerted pigeon, and then jogged over to their party once he spotted the back of Mei's head.

Just as soon as the Korean caught up to them, Mei blinked at Arthur as if just now realizing that he was present. "Oh, Mr. Britain! I'm sorry! I didn't see you there." She quickly bowed in greetings/apologies, her long brown hair bouncing about her like fine silk. "I hope I didn't interrupt anything."

"It's quite alright, Miss Taiwan. No harm done."

"Geez, Mei, I look away for two seconds and you're gone again," Yong Soo complained, frowning obnoxiously at her. "I already lost you in Times Square three times and once just going down an alleyway. You know, Yao always says that I need a leash, but I'm starting to think you need one."

Mei frowned back at him, eyebrows curved downward, nose crinkled and nostrils flared. "You _do_ need a leash, Yong Soo! How many times have you tried to steal food from the food carts today?"

"About as many times as you wandered away like a hopeless little dog."

"I've been in cities before—ones that are larger than New York! I know how to handle myself!"

" _I know how handle myself,_ " Yong Soo mocked in a high-pitched voice, flipping his floppy bangs to the side.

"Please, South Korea, try not to upset Taiwan," Kiku cautioned, his voice as calm and levelled as ever. "We do not need to cause anymore scenes today."

Yong Soo and Mei quickly exchanged narrowed glares at each other before poking out their tongues insultingly and turning away. The irritated look was wiped off completely from Mei's face once she gazed at Kiku again, a grand smile replacing it. "Central Park[9] isn't too far from here and I would love to see it at nighttime. The weather's nice and the view of the city lights must be stunning."

"It would make a good Instagram photo," Yong Soo agreed.

Arthur smirked at the amusing relationship between Mei and Yong Soo: they can fight like cats and dogs one minute and then act like best friends the next.

Mei grabbed Kiku's forearm. "Can you come with us? You've been there before, I know. Maybe you can show us the most beautiful parts of it."

Arthur saw the hesitation in Kiku's eyes; if Mei was involved, he'd be more than happy to travel along, but the Japanese man glimpsed at him worriedly. "Uh, I am still having dinner with Mr. Britain right now. I'm sorry but I—"

"Oh, go on ahead, Japan," he interrupted. "We were almost done anyhow."

Mei looked at him. "You can come with us too, Mr. Britain. Oh, what is it the Americans say?" She paused in thought and then brightened when the answer came to her. "The more, the merrier!"

Arthur ignored the tight-lipped grimace Yong Soo was sporting from the corner of his eye and replied, "Thank you, but I'm afraid I can't. I must leave in the morning to head back home."

"Oh, what a shame. Early morning flights are always so tiring."

Kiku eyed him with slight concern. "Are you sure?" he asked in a quiet voice.

He responded with a tiny crooked smile, acting like everything was okay. "Of course I am. On a clear night like this, you can see the lights perfectly from several acres away. So, go and take this opportunity."

Kiku smiled back, though he didn't show his teeth (he almost never did). "If you insist. Thank you; at least let me pay for your recommendation."

He dug in his slack's pocket and pulled out an old leather wallet. He pushed pass some of his yen until he reached his small stack of American dollars. He laid two twenties on the table and stood up, grabbing his briefcase along the way. He bowed his head to Arthur and added, "Nice seeing you again, Mr. Britain, and thank you for your time."

"The pleasure is mine." He struck out his hand to which Kiku took hold of and shook firmly.

Arthur watched the trio exit the restaurant, Yong Soo stretching his arms above his head while Mei held tightly to Kiku's arm, that small blush still present on Kiku's cheeks. He heaved a sigh and glanced down at his food. Not much was taken and he didn't plan on finishing it. His gaze then aimed at the window next to him. The sky was almost black and the lights of New York City shone brightly like the colorful auras of small faeries. He could feel the remembrance curse at the back of his mind and he rubbed his temple as if that would prevent it from attacking once more.

 _I just want to forget for a little while,_ he told his plagued mind.

"Would you like more to drink, sir?"

Arthur turned to see the same waitress with two black braids staring at him, a tired but hardworking grin on her face. He peeked at his empty glass and saw the two twenties next to it that Kiku place there. He knew he had at least fifty American dollars in his wallet now and he also knew that he wouldn't be spending too much of it in the next twelve hours. He chewed on his tongue but gave in to temptation.

"Yes, ma'am. Another pint, please."

She gripped the handle of the glass. "Comin' right up."

Two minutes later, she returned, set the filled mug in front of him, and went away. He clutched the glass in his bony hand and took a swig of the intoxicating drink.

 _Just for a little while._

* * *

[1] French translation: "Isn't that right?"

[2] The assumptions people made about why Elizabeth chose to remain single were next to outrageous: countless love affairs, questioning her ability to have children, some people even thought she was a man. Damn, nosey much?

[3] Almost 1.5 million people were killed during the French Revolution and the Revolutionary Wars that followed. Cemeteries were overflowing with all the dead bodies, so the French had resorted to putting them in underground tunnels in Paris—the catacombs hold roughly 6 million skeletons today. Bad joke, but why do some Hetalians not realize how dead France is inside? (Also that headcanon about Francis having a neck scar from being guillotined at the French Revolution is totally accepted here.)

[4] Elizabeth caught a deadly case of the infamous smallpox in 1562 which almost killed her. During the last few years of her reign, she became seriously depressed as all her friends and court members around her died (mainly to old age)—whenever she wasn't in court, she'd lock herself up in her room and could be heard crying softly. There was an incident when some of the palace guards had to knock down the door in fear of Elizabeth never coming back out.

[5] China and Japan have always had harsh views on each other, even to this day. Though Japan was heavily influenced by Chinese architecture, language, and attire, they've always tried to distance themselves from them. A long line of invasions and war is shared between them, especially surrounding the years of WWI and WWII when Japan's empire was present.

[6] Roughly 2,500 Americans were killed during the Pearl Harbor attack 76 years ago, 68 of which were civilians. This was a complete surprise and horrible tragedy considering that America didn't even join the war yet (they were still going through the Great Depression at the time). There's even a Pearl Harbor Remembrance Day here in America on December 7.

[7] 90,000-146,000 died in the bombing of Hiroshima and another 39,000-80,000 in Nagasaki. About half of those deaths occurred within the first day of the actual dropping of the atomic bomb while others died over the next few months from the lasting radiation. The attacks were within 3 days of each other and Japan officially surrendered a month later. (Learning this fact hit me so hard in the feels, I had to sit back and think about this for a moment.)

[8] Emperor Shōwa or Hirohito was the emperor of Japan during WWII. He was known to be a pacifist and wished to avoid war altogether. Hideki Tojo was prime minister at the time and was a huge supporter of the Axis alliance between Japan, Germany, and Italy and was the one who designed the attack of Pearl Harbor in 1942. Tojo later fully converted Hirohito into thinking that war was the best option (he was known to be very persuasive) and the emperor still praised him as a "hard-worker" after he resigned in 1944 and was later executed in 1948.

[9] For anyone who doesn't live in America, Central Park is essentially several acres of land that sits in the middle of the city. It is best known for its gorgeous gardens and zoo. (Nothing too special.)


	13. At Last

****This chapter took FOREVER. Sorry about the wait folks; I haven't posted in nearly a month and I did leave the last chapter on a semi-cliffhanger so I do hope you forgive me with this 20-page long chapter (it's a secret wedding, it had to be perfect, okay?).**

 **Enjoy the fluffiness ahead!****

 _1 August 1560_

Tonight was the night. After all the planning and secrets, it was here.

 _Finally._

It took Arthur more than a year and a half to gather all the preparations for the marriage ceremony between him and Elizabeth. With his betrothed being the Queen of England, she was always busy signing laws at court, speaking with her subjects, and avoiding Parliament as much as possible (he couldn't blame her on that one),[1] so she was unable to offer her services to the making of this special occasion. He had no complainants however—he was more than willing to do all the work (which was probably why it took so long).

Sworn to absolute secrecy to everything between them, Arthur had to move stealthily. Naturally, he was required to attend every court meeting and carry out any tasks given to him by his queen, but whenever he had the day off or could get away without rising suspicion, he would grab the opportunity and make the most of it.

Elizabeth would also take whatever chance she got to display some sort of affection or endearment toward him. Yes, the two were able to find some alone time together—they chased each other through the woods whilst hunting, took morning walks around the palace and spoke of whatever came to their minds, played music and danced together in Elizabeth's private chambers—but apparently it wasn't enough for her. Sometimes she would sneak a quick kiss on his jaw, chin, temple, or wherever she could reach before exiting a room, often leaving him in a flustered mess. Though she kept her mask on during court—professionalism and concentration usually outlined her brown eyes and red lips—he would occasionally find her eyes trained on him before sending a minute smile and turning away. She even dared to curl her fingers around his under the table whenever they sat together at court.

But, as far as he was concerned, none had suspected a thing, so he tolerated Elizabeth's flirtatious acts toward him with blushing cheeks and a skipping heart.[2]

Kat and John Ashley were informed of the engagement by Elizabeth herself. Both were surprised at first (as expected), but later became accepting and helpful. Arthur was relieved when Kat clasped her wrinkled hands with his, smiled warmly, and said, "I know you'll care for my Elizabeth when I cease to exist." John presented himself as an assistant to Arthur's needs and gave excuses to council members whenever he was late to meetings on account of wedding arrangements. He was entirely grateful for their acceptance and support to say the least.

What took up so much of Arthur's time was locating a suitable priest to perform the ceremony.

Although he knew that the task would involve most of his time and efforts, he didn't imagine it would consume it all. _He has to achieve it willingly and must keep it clandestine,_ he prompted himself as he'd travel from church to church, searching for such a minister. He only attended Protestant cathedrals (even though they were limited due to his previous queen's demands); he'd join Sunday services and other gatherings just to observe the preacher's agenda. There were some who thought they were still under the Roman Catholic Church or just disliked their current monarch, causing Arthur's eye to twitch in annoyance before standing up and walking out of the church, bewildered and exasperated eyes watching him as he went.[3] But most preachers were true Protestants and thought their queen to be a goddess. Arthur would then listen in on conversations they would have with churchgoers or other priests; could they keep a secret? He would even speak with them and make up a confessional sin to see if they were forgiving or not—"I've stolen some bread in order to feed my children back home" or "I've trespassed others' homes to seek shelter from the disastrous weather"—and their responses usually made up his mind.

Most grew mightily concerned and would tell other priests or even magistrates to have him arrested and put on trial. Whenever it did reach a judge's ears, they would dismiss him with an apology, knowing who he was and his innocence. But they would question why he would tell unnecessary tales to the priests and Arthur would say subtly, "It is as my queen demands." (He learned over the years that if he supplied with such a statement, he could get away with nearly anything, but he decided to use that power sparingly before things could get out of hand.)

Very few priests nodded in understanding at Arthur's tall tales and told him that God forgives all as they patted his shoulder or held his hand. But Arthur would then notice the dull look in their eyes that would betray their supposedly comforting gestures; they either disapproved of his "actions" or frankly didn't care what he had to say. Feeling uncomfortable with their arrogance, Arthur walked away from them too.

He examined a total fifty-three priests and he was about to give up all hope when he met the fifty-fourth in Kent.

Warm rain poured from the bleak sky as Arthur lightly jogged toward the small church ahead, splashing through large puddles in the grassy field. Two people, a man and a woman, stepped out from its grand wooden doors just as he caught up to them, slipping through the gap before it closed on him. The interior of the church looked just like every other church he visited: wooden benches lined half the room and a platform stood in the middle of the second half. A few lighted candles sat atop said platform to replace the lack of sun that day, dimly illuminating the crucified Jesus that hung upon the wall. Arthur removed his felt cap, crossed himself, and then put his hat back on. As he walked down the aisle, he counted five people scattered among the benches with their hands clasped and heads bowed, praying silently for whatever they desired the most.

He glanced up at the bronze statue on the wall again. _You know my greatest desire already, so how much more precious time must I give up?_

He found the priest speaking with an elderly woman off to the side near the glass-stained windows. He kept a calm expression as the woman babbled frantically, her ancient voice echoing throughout the room: "I fear we are to be ruined, Father! My dear husband has lost his job and our children have forgotten us, living their own lives in Lincolnshire. My husband also suffers from a terrible cough where blood spurts from his mouth like a fountain. I—I fear I may lose my sanity if things do not change…"

She began to weep and the priest collected her thin, trembling hands in his and squeezed them tightly. "I'm afraid I cannot help you with medicines or job offerings as those are for doctors and business owners, but I can help you with your faith and with the life we lead after this temporary one. Do not lose hope for it is one of the few things in this world we're allowed to have. If you keep it, then God shall not abandon you, but welcome you with open arms when the Judgement Day comes."

At that, the woman smiled through her tears and pressed her wrinkles lips against his knuckles. "Thank you, Father. Thank you for your wisdom."

"And thank you for your faith." He returned the smile and watched her hopple off.

"I'd hate to be a burden," Arthur piped up, walking toward the priest, "but do you care to spread some more wisdom for me?"

"That's no burden at all. How may I—" The pastor's sentence was cut off once his dark eyes landed on Arthur's being. He blinked twice in shock, his lips ajar. "Well, God bless my soul, it's Lord England. What a surprise this is."

Arthur blinked back, equally taken aback. "How…do you know me?"

"I don't; only your name. What brings you here?"

He could feel some of the churchgoers eye him and immediately felt uncomfortable. "Um, well…"

Catching their eyes, the pastor said, "Ah, pardon my exclamation. Perhaps you'd like to speak in private?"

"Uh, yes. That would be preferable."

The priest nodded and led him further into the church. They strolled down a hall and entered another room, an office, at the end of it. There wasn't much in the tiny room, only a desk, a couple chairs, and short piles of paperwork. "Please excuse my small mess here," the priest apologized, closing the door behind them. "I obviously wasn't expecting company."

"Nothing to apologize for, Father…?"

"It's George."

Arthur nodded. "Father George. Oh, and it's Sir England—the castle hasn't risen my position in a long time."

George smirked as he crossed the room and stood by his desk, his long white robes nearly dragging behind him. "Well, I'm glad I mistaken you for a higher title rather than a lower one. I could only imagine the disappointment my country would have in me if I thought you for a mere laborer."

"Speaking of which, how do you know me? Or my title rather?"

George leaned against the untidy bureau which groaned quietly beneath his weight. "It took me awhile to unfold it all; only persons of higher status are aware of your existence. But, long story short, I learned to recognize you during public executions that our late Queen Mary—may she rest in peace—often held. I watched plenty of my Protestant brothers burn and saw the same attendants come to the executions: Catholics mostly and many of the queen's men, but I noticed your presence come and go. Whenever you were there, your eyes aimed anywhere but at the fire and when you weren't there, the men wondered where 'England ran off to now' and 'if he'd be back for the next burning.' Confusion added to my horror and I asked myself who or what this Mr. England was; your absence was quite frequent, and I used context clues given by the soldiers to figure out that the country I thought I knew was actually a man, a human being." He looked at him. "But I suppose you're not entirely human, are you?"

Arthur glimpsed at the wooden cross that hung behind George's bald head. "I try to be, as much as I can anyhow."

George, thankfully, took the vague answer and crossed his arms. "Well, how can I assist you, Sir England?"

He brushed off a few raindrops that clung to his doublet. _Fuck, what do I say now? If he knows my position and knows I lead a somewhat safe and healthy life, then he won't believe my confessions._

 _Not that lying to a priest is going to assure my trip to heaven, whenever that may be._

He shook his head, trying to rid his inner dispute, and answered George, "It's…difficult to explain."

"I'll try my best to understand."

"It'll sound a bit ridiculous and I might regret saying it later on."

"Try not to regret your decisions; that'll only add more weight to your shoulders."

He frowned, slightly frustrated with how trustworthy he seemed. "If I tell, you must not repeat this to anyone else. Reputations are at stake and if anything slips from this tightly secured secret, then we'll have bigger problems on our hands."

George straightened. "Several Englishmen and women have told me a great many things, most of which are not pleasant, and I have promised them to never reveal their darkest wishes or terrible sins. I assure you, you're not the first and I predict you won't be the last to tell me a horrible secret."

Arthur paused. George stared.

"I can help you, Sir England."

He aimed his gaze off to the side, where the hardwood flooring met the cream-colored wall. A deep sigh escaped him as he dug his fingernails into his palms. _Dear God, I hope this works._

"It is business involving the queen," he mumbled, still not looking at the patient pastor. "The queen and I have…fallen in love. We wish to be wedded, but the queen's hold on the throne will fall if the public knows of such a forsaken marriage. I am no king and can offer her nothing but my eternal love for her, something court members and diplomatic traders are not fond of. That is why this ceremony is to stay a secret; only a selected few know. I have prepared all other arrangements and all I need is a priest in order to make the matrimony official." He peeked up. "That is what you can assist me with, Father."

As he expected, silence quickly filled the small room like an overbearing flood. He observed the hesitation in George's eyes and waited for him to respond, daring him almost. His jaw moved around, wanting to speak but not knowing how. He finally parted his lips, stopped, and then asked, "How many priests have you spoken to about this?"

"I've seen fifty-three in total, but you're the first I've told."

His barely-visible eyebrows raised at the staggering number. "When are you hoping to have this ceremony?"

"No date is determined. Once I find an appropriate pastor, then the ceremony wouldn't be too far behind."

"Where will it be?"

"I'll only reveal that information if you agree to do this."

Arthur's gaze was sharpening, but it swiftly softened at George's next question: "Do you really love her?"

Though he was confused by the unexpected inquiry, he responded with no hesitation: "Yes."

George pursed his lips. "I don't mean to pry, I really don't, but…are you not immortal?"

"Somewhat."

"How will you and—"

"If you don't want to do this, just give me your word that you won't spread this information to others and I'll leave." He went to grab the curved doorknob, but George's cries stopped him.

"No, wait! I swear to not tell another soul. Just please answer this one last question for me. What will the future hold for you two, if anything at all?"

He turned to throw another piercing glare at the pastor. "My future is always in the hands of others, jumbling around like a damn leaf, easily broken and difficult to save. I can't help that. I can't save myself, but I can save hers. All I'm concerned about is her forthcoming—yes, I know her life is short compared to mine and I know she'll leave this world someday, but if I can bring happiness and peace to her life here on earth, then nothing else matters. Nothing else will ever matter."

Another spout of silence entered the room once more. George stared at the hardened look Arthur was giving him, stunned at first but then determined afterwards.

"I'll do it," he declared.

One of his thick eyebrows rose and his hand relaxed on the doorknob. "Will you now?"

"Yes."

"What's with the sudden attitude change?"

He paused again and shifted to look at the wooden cross behind him. "I've united many marriages that were arranged and have seen most of them crumble due to the mismatched personalities of the unlucky pairings. Marriage is often seen as a business, as a way of spreading wealth or power, so it's nice to see a change, to see people marry solely on love and trust. I'm sure Parliament is trying their best to gather princes and dukes from other lands to win the hand of our noble queen."

He smiled and looked back at Arthur. "I suppose I should unite you and your queen before that happens."

Arthur grinned slightly. "I strongly agree with that statement."

Now Arthur's heart fluttered with excitement and nervousness as he marched down the narrow hallway that lead to one of the back entrances of Windsor Castle, the plan of attack beginning to slowly unfold itself.

Having whispered the news that he'd be waiting outside the foot of her balcony to his dear Elizabeth, she replied with a simple nod and let her ladies escort her to her bedchamber for the end of the night. Kat, being in charge of most of the women in the castle, told Arthur that she would make sure all the maids were gone when their duty was completed and then meet up with Father George just outside the palace grounds and lead him deep into the surrounding forest where the ceremony was to be held. John presented himself as a distraction by conversing with the guards so that his wife and the priest could cross the border without being spotted. Arthur checked for any lingering souls around the empty halls and parlors, blowing out every lit candle and drew forth every curtain, darkness enveloping him so it made stealth easier to obtain.

Hearing nothing but his own anxious breathing, he silently escaped out the back and then ran to the left side of the castle, to where Elizabeth's bedroom was located.

His feet pounded on the hard ground, but made little to no sound (no louder than the chirping crickets and hooting owls anyway). He wore boots with no buckles and lacked any jewelry so that they wouldn't clang together, creating unnecessary noise. Black breeches and a brown shirt and jerkin helped him blend into the night; to any wandering eyes, he was just another shadow among the timeless forest.

He stopped abruptly when he rounded a corner, recognizing a minute figure in the distance, between the growing yew trees. He hesitated and narrowed his gaze onto the dark silhouette that raised its arm and waved it in wide arcs like a flag during battle. Blinking, he discovered it to be John Ashley, giving some sort of signal that their plan was moving along accordingly. Arthur replied by lifting his hand in the air. John, satisfied with this, lowered his limb and then trotted back into the woods, disappearing from his line of sight.

Arthur quickly scanned the surrounding area before jogging over to the curved balcony several meters above his head. He stood back and looked up. There was a large cluster of vines on the right side of the balcony, blooming red and white roses tangled within it. This was to be Elizabeth's escape route—the thick vines weaved around the short stone columns that made up the structure and draped so lowly that the tips of some leaves brushed against the shrubbery that outlined the castle's walls. He marched forward and gave the improvised rope a good tug. Nothing snapped or fell thus he assumed it would be enough to hold Elizabeth's weight.

He stepped away, peering at the closed door to Her Majesty's chamber. "Elizabeth!" he called, whispering as loudly as he could, not sure how much good it would bring.

No response.

He tried again: "Elizabeth, it's me."

Nothing still.

Anxiety and minor frustration nudged his throat as he whipped his head around, searching for any royal guards or unwanted guests. He found none and turned back to the balcony. "Eliza—"

"I heard you the first bloody time!" Elizabeth snapped as she flew open her door and leaned over the stone railing.

The irritation and worry he felt simply vanished once his bride-to-be came into his field of vision. All makeup and jewelry (excluding her coronation ring) were absent and her fiery red hair was set free, her wild curls draping over the rail like the twisted vines below her. She wore a loose yet fitting burgundy gown that exposed her collarbone with ruffled white trim tracing the short sleeves. She was also barefooted and he noticed just how ghostly pale she was in the heavy darkness, glowing like the full moon overhead.[4]

He felt his body slacken somewhat—his jaw dropped and his shoulders slumped—and all he could think of was how unbelievably stunning his dear Lizzie was.

He lost track of time and didn't realize how long he'd stood there staring at her; he only found it again when he saw the impatient spark in her eyes as if she had demanded him the answer to an inquiry.

"What?" he said stupidly.

Slowly her impatience was overtaken by a crafty smirk, one that suggested her knowledge of why he stared. " _Now_ you say nothing," she chuckled.

Grateful that the night shielded his flustered face from Elizabeth's gaze, Arthur sulked and grumbled, "What is taking you so long? You knew I was waiting here."

His queen placed a finger over her lips, glanced back at the agape door, and then quickly moved to shut it (though with much quietness). "I wasn't going to get married in a mere nightgown," she explained. "I wanted to dress myself into a more appropriate attire, if you must know. And that sour look you're giving me not only tells me I cannot fulfill my personal wish but, more importantly, it's damaging your handsome facial features." She looked at him sadly. "I find your green eyes much more attractive when they aren't glaring at me like some annoyed lion."

Arthur's face twitched as he aimed his glare at the rose bushes by his feet; his blush deepened and he began shifting his weight around, not knowing what to do or what to say. Elizabeth laughed again. "I'm only teasing, my darling. I'm on my way down."

He pretended to not hear the sweetness in her voice when she called him "her darling" yet he still felt the cool night suddenly rise in fever as if the August air were emphasizing the summer season.

Elizabeth sat on the stone edge of the balcony and then swung her legs over. She firmly grasped a fistful of vines and jerked it roughly, just like how Arthur had. She then began to carefully descend to the ground, eyeing each move she made. Arthur stepped forward, his legs pushing against the scrubs as he held out his arms to Elizabeth. As she proceeded downward, she noted his open arms and grinned. "Ease your nerves; I won't fall."

"I know you won't, but my nerves won't understand that."

She giggled. "For a man whose natural expression is a scowl, you do worry to great extents."

"Only for the ones that are worth it."

"And how many souls are worth your attention?"

"Just yours."

His heart warmed at the bashful smile Elizabeth attempted to hide behind her thick, curly hair. With that small blush blooming across her piercing cheekbones, he felt somewhat less-self-conscious about his own red face.

She eventually came within reaching distance, so Arthur slipped his hands around her small waist and gently pulled her from the gathered vines; she steadied herself by gripping his shoulders tightly. He backed away from the rose bushes—they rustled slightly as he did so—and then lowered Elizabeth to the soft grass below. As soon as he let go, he felt Elizabeth grasp his hand in her own and then dart forward to the neighboring woods, dragging him behind her.

He stumbled at first, unprepared for the powerful yank that he didn't know Elizabeth possessed, but swiftly regained his footing and kept a steady pace with her. She laughed at his ungracefulness but then slapped her other hand over her mouth to muffle the noise. He bit on his bottom lip as a chuckle burst passed his teeth. When she was able to reduce her laughter, she smiled widely at him. "Come, you clumsy fool. Don' t let your legs fail you now—we're to be married soon."

He wasn't sure which one encouraged him to squeeze her hand tighter and continue to follow her between the yew trees: her friendly reminder or her wonderful smile.

The pair hurried as though their lives depended on it (which it did in a way) but nothing could erase the ecstatic energy they carried as they hopped over fallen tree branches and dodged rabbit holes, their grip on each other never parting throughout the run. After spending much of their alone-time within those peaceful woods, navigating through them was like memorizing the passages of an old map; they knew where they were going without saying a word. Arthur watched Elizabeth's hair bounce against her shoulders and her white feet move speedily across the woodland ground. Her legs pumped faster than he thought they could, reminding him of her loyal steed Cannon. He found himself keeping up with her fast stride easily.

 _I suppose when happiness is your destination, your body and mindset will do anything to get there,_ he guessed.

They knew they were deep into the woods when they finally reached the others; Kat, John, and George were all there, quietly talking amongst themselves. Once they burst out from the darkness, the three witnesses stopped and turned to them. John grinned, and Kat clasped her hands together in excitement while George began flipping through the small Bible he carried. The pastor found the page he was searching for and then glanced up at the duo.

"Are you prepared, Your Highness?" he asked Elizabeth.

She nodded her head quickly, her curls springing, her smile growing. "Yes, Father. More than anything."

He returned the grin and then glimpsed at Arthur. "And you, Sir?"

"Of course."

"Then let's get started, shall we?"

 _Finally._

Excluding any dowry and fancy apparels of the participants, the ceremony was just like any other. John and Kat stood to the side as George recited from the Bible while Arthur and Elizabeth listened to the man; they occasionally stole glances at one another out of uncontainable eagerness. When asked if they would stay faithful to each other even through all the awful things in life that came, they replied without any hesitations, "I do." George inquired if there were any weds to be presented and John stepped forward with two golden rings in the palm of his hand.[5] The good man offered to ask a blacksmith to construct the wedding bands so as to cause less suspicion for Arthur. _I need to give him at least a hundred or so pounds for his services,_ Arthur told himself as he gratefully took the simple bands from John with a small smile. He slipped on one of the rings onto Elizabeth's finger—right atop her purple coronation ring—and she did the same to him. He thought his heart would surely burst when George announced the words, "I hereby pronounce you man and wife."

Kat let out a joyous laugh and applauded, as did John. Arthur could feel his cheeks and ears heat up, but the sight of Elizabeth's full, honest smile made him forget about it momentarily. She laughed and wrapped her arms around him tightly, leaving him no movement to hug her back. "This is the most jubilant day of my existence!" she declared, setting her pointed chin on his left shoulder, her wide smile still present.

"As is mine," he murmured through his own smile. His hands found her shoulder blades and he pressed them into him as an attempt to return the embrace she still was giving him.

They stayed like this for only a short but sweet moment when John interrupted by saying, "Well, Sir England?"

Arthur looked up at him. He found both Ashleys staring back as if they were eagerly waiting for something. "Yes?"

"Are you not going to kiss your bride?" John asked. Kat nodded along encouragingly.

Arthur, blushing madly, turned toward Elizabeth and suppressed a snicker once he noticed her eyes squeezed shut with her lips puckered like a fish. "I await for my wedding gift, my dear husband," she giggled.

He couldn't stop the smile from broadening across his face as he leaned forward and lightly pushed his lips against her outstretched ones. He heard the happy clapping and festive shouts of the Ashleys but, when he withdrew, he saw the tiny frown Elizabeth now wore. He figured she was minorly displeased at the carefully petit kiss he gave her. She resumed her contented state as her eyes peeked behind him at Kat, hurrying over to give one of her warm hugs. She did the same to John and then curtseyed in front of George, thanking him for all he'd done.

"The pleasure is mine, Your Highness." He went to bow before the queen, but she quickly grabbed his hands and guided him back up.

"No need for that, Father," she said. "You've done more than enough for us."

George smiled and nodded. "As you wish, my Queen. So, what happens now?"

She paused, pondering the question. Her eyes landed on Arthur as if he were the solution to it all. "That's so strange; I'm not sure. Now that I carry the responsibility of marriage, I don't know what to do with it."

Kat laughed and placed her hands on Elizabeth's arms. "You celebrate, my dear! You both have achieved something that you wanted for a long time; enjoy each other's company without having the whole world upon your shoulders."

"Yes, but how? Though we're deep in these crowded woods, the castle and its workers are not too far away. What if they hear us or notice our absence?"

A short hesitation spread itself around the group, each thinking of a way to disappear completely, when Arthur spoke up: "Then we go further. You and I have traveled these woods many times before and we can find our way back before sunrise. It was almost midnight when we left Windsor, so we have perhaps five or six hours before the rest of the world wakes up." He glanced at John. "Would it be too troublesome to create an excuse for us if we somehow don't make it back in time?"

"It would be no trouble at all. They believed everything I told them when you were missing from court, so I assume they will take another explanation just fine."

And with that, John, Kat, and George turned back the way they came after giving Elizabeth tender holds and Arthur firm handshakes. The newly-married couple stood by with their hands woven together and watched them go, their figures rapidly dissolving into the blackness of the night. Elizabeth raised her free hand in parting and then looked up at Arthur.

"So, where shall we go?" she asked brightly. "Besides, you know, roaming deeper into the woods?"

Instead of answering the question, Arthur, overwhelmed with pure bliss, grabbed her other hand, closed his eyes, and brought them up his lips, kissing her knuckles firmly. He could faintly feel her slender fingers reach out and stroke his chin; when he reopened his lids, he was pleased to find a timid but joyful smile and a tint of pink on her cheeks. He murmured into her skin, "I have such a beautiful"—here he paused to peck her right pinkie finger and then provided more praises for each bony digit before placing a loving kiss upon it—"intelligent, strong, fearless, witty, confident, selfless, determined, clever, and overall perfect wife."

Bashful, Elizabeth stepped forward and rested her forehead against his own and they remained this way—he holding her hands as if they were made of precious stones and she observing him like how one would watch the moon and stars on a cool, clear night—until Arthur reopened his eyes, an idea popping in his mind.

"Would you like to go on an adventure with me?" he asked quietly as he brought her palms up to his cheeks, her warmth spreading throughout his face and heart.

"Well, I am rather fond of adventures." She pecked the tip of his nose. "You know me so very well."

She laughed and he smiled; Arthur held onto her left hand as he guided her toward his destination.

Further into the woods they went which was an adventure in itself. The nocturnal creatures started emerging from their hiding-spots, peering at the strange pair. Crickets sang, owls flew, raccoons scattered. Elizabeth gazed all around them in wonder; often he would feel a small tug on his hand and then he'd wait patiently for her to examine some glowing fireflies or a sleepy rabbit in a hole before leading on once again.

"Where _are_ you taking me?" she whispered to him. He caught the distraction in her voice, the hesitation that belonged to the awakening forest.

"We're almost there." The gentle sounds of the River Thames trickling by was slowly increasing in volume; yes, they were nearly there.

A few more strides later, Arthur and Elizabeth came to the edge of a clearing—the large yew trees had come to an end and before them laid the miles-long River Thames, its blue waves lapping with the calm August breeze. The grass, long and thick, swayed to and fro and the only sign of animal life were the low croaking of nearby toads and the flapping wings of small bats. One could easily see the shining moon overhead; it was truly a magnificent sight to behold.

Elizabeth abandoned his hand and strolled onward. He watched her observe the environment with a simple curiosity; she paused by the water to glance into and tucked a curl behind her ear. For a moment, he'd forgotten why they were there: Elizabeth's innocent actions and the dim glint of her wedding ring made him lose his concentration once more. And, as usual, it was her voice that brought his senses back together, much like a puzzle.

"Arthur?"

He blinked. "Yes?"

She grinned, amused. "That's second time this night you've lost yourself. Are you alright, my love?"[6]

He scratched his cheekbone and mumbled out, "Yes, I'm fine."

 _What the fuck is wrong with me?_ he demanded of himself.

With that grin still on her face, she looked around. "This scenery is very lovely—no doubts—but we've been here before, haven't we? I believe it was the Sunday last that we discovered this side of the Thames. I'm afraid we've already been on this adventure."

"That's true," he confirmed, sauntering toward Elizabeth, "but there's something here I didn't show you before; the timing wasn't right—they only appear whenever the sky is dark."

Her smirk transferred to a confused frown. "What do you mean?"

Smiling slightly, he glanced upwards. "Tell me: what do you see in this dark sky?"

She tilted her head back. "The pregnant moon. Several hazy stars."

He hesitated once a memory poked at his brain. "You and Edward were always fascinated by the stars and the unknown.[7] I remember watching you read astrology books to your brother, both of your faces lighting up in interest the further you read. I must confess, I was very pleased when you appointed John Dee as a personal advisor of yours.[8] His madness inspired you, did it not?"

"Yes. I've known him for a long time and trust his advice, despite what others may think." She looked at him. "Arthur, what's in the sky?"

He peeked at her and then looked back up. "These aren't really stars."

His hand reached up and he lightly jabbed at one of the dimly-lit dots in the sky. Upon contact, it instantly glowed a bright arctic blue and bounced to the side, knocking into two other spots; they blew up in color as well. Elizabeth gasped in surprise as the rest of the "stars" in the sky lit up into that brilliant blue color—an audible _click_ could be heard as each one woke up and rebounded against other dots.

"They're faeries," Arthur corrected.

With the sound of a million bubbles popping, the blue dots fell from the black sky and flew around the empty clearing like bumblebees in a garden on a warm, spring day. They hopped on the Thames, brushed against the wavy grass, danced with each other, circled around the moon. Arthur felt them tug on his hair and his clothes, greeting him like an old friend. The snapping bubbles—their language—grew louder in his ears as they darted in and around his face; he had to blink a few times whenever their glowing aura got too close to his eyes.

He waved his hand to usher them away. "A little bit of space, please. Come on now."

One by one, they backed away, but kept dashing within a few meters of him. Elizabeth whirled her head around, watching the noisy faeries flutter. Her eyes were wide with puzzlement and uneasiness but mostly with wonder. Her hands were clasped together at her chest and her lips were ajar; he smiled at the childlike curiosity he'd seen so many times on her face before.

"Lizzie."

She looked at him, at the busy faeries still spinning around his head. "These…these are faeries?" she asked quietly.

"Yes. Do not fear; they are harmless. The most damage they can do is yank out a hair or two." He held out his hand, palm up. "Would you like to hold one?"

A smile slowly curved up her lips as she nodded her head, placing the back of her hand on his palm. He plucked a blue faerie from his shoulder (it apparently didn't receive his message about letting his personal space be). It was the size of a shilling and weighed no more than a raven's feather.

As he cautiously lowered the faerie onto Elizabeth's hand, he informed it, "This is Queen Elizabeth Tudor, ruler of this kingdom." He blushed a little and added, "She is also my wife, so I expect you to treat her with the utmost respect, you hear?"

"Oh, I'm sure they're absolute darlings," Elizabeth protested. She cupped her occupied hand with the other, smiling kindly at the faerie. "How do you do? What a beauty you are! It's very nice to meet you."

The faerie was instantly delighted by her compliment, so it happily bubbled back a friendly greeting. It sprung out of her hands and hovered an inch or two in front of her nose, examining her; Elizabeth jumped in surprise. The faerie, contented with whatever it saw, spoke again, only louder this time. The other faeries began circling around Elizabeth, some talking to her, some poking her, and some gently tugging on her curls. Her contagious giggles drowned out the soft language of the faeries, her eyes wondering, her hands grasping.

"This is wonderful," she exclaimed, the bright blue glow of the faeries reflecting against her white skin. "How long have they been here, in these woods?"

"A while, I suppose," Arthur answered. "They're rather fond of the Thames and can only be seen at night, much like fireflies. There are other supernatural beings that roam these woods though; the blue faeries are the ones I see the most however."

"There are others here? Why haven't I seen them?"

He shrugged. "It depends on the being. Most don't wish to be seen, therefore they hide themselves from the human eye. Others, like the faeries, can only be seen at certain times or on certain days or can only be summoned by something else. They can be rather picky sometimes."[9]

She lightly poked a faerie who bubbled excitedly, almost like it was laughing. "How long have you known these beings?"

"Ever since I can remember. As a child, I would spend much of my time with these unique creatures. It took some time, but I came to realize that many people could not see or understand who I was playing with. Even my own brothers could only see a few of these said creatures."

"Are you a cunning man?"[10]

"Not really. I can just…see things."

She twirled and the faeries followed the motion. "Your eyes are so much more beautiful than I thought them to be. What a fantastic world you must live in."

"It's only fantastic when you're in it."

He could see the blush on her cheeks, even with the faeries' radiance being their only light. With a playful smirk tugging at her lips, she stepped toward him and looked into his eyes, her face inches away from his. "You cheeky bastard," she breathed against his skin before placing a tender kiss to his lips.

They lost track of time as they moved around the clearing—they danced with the faeries, kicked at the water, gazed at the moon. Their laughter and joy never ceased during this time. They laid on the long, soft grass and talked for a long time. Elizabeth asked him countless questions about his personal life (anything that didn't involve the previous monarchies or wars he'd been to), recalled random memories either from recent times or back when some of her family was still alive, and she'd point out anything in the scenery they laid in and go on about it. She spoke like a poet and she observed and learned like a professor. She paid attention to everything he said and he knew that she would remember it all, her brain capable of absorbing nearly anything she cared to study. They intertwined fingers, brushed away hairs, kissed passionately or sweetly, traced facial features, and held steady gazes. Pretty soon, Arthur couldn't feel the weight of his new wedding ring or the uncontrollable fluttering of his heart. Soon it all felt like normal, it all felt like home.

Oh, how he hoped that the night would never end.

But, like all things, it did.

Overtime, they both fell asleep and Arthur awoke some time later. His first sight was Elizabeth, curled up on her side and clutching his hand in both of hers. Her lips were open slightly and he could hear each quiet inhale and exhale she took. He blinked slowly and grinned, carefully combing back a curl from her closed eyes. He went to press a tiny kiss to her forehead, but paused when the sound of a robin's chirp filled the air.

Confused, he glanced up to see the little red bird fly over them. He also noticed that the faeries were no longer present, not a blue orb anywhere in sight. He shifted to peek behind his shoulder and his eyes widened when he did so. He saw the morning sun slowly making its way toward the bright orange sky.

"Shit," he whispered.

Turning back to Elizabeth, he squeezed her hand and gently shook her shoulder. "Lizzie, wake up. We have to go."

Her eyebrows twitched as a low hum vibrated from her throat, but no other movements were made.

"Lizzie," he tried again, sitting up now. "Lizzie, please wake up."

"Ten more minutes," he heard her grumble into his hand.[11]

"No, no more time. The sun is rising and you have to be back in your chamber before the maids get there. We must go now."

Knowing she'd move slower than a lion when stalking its prey, he decided to do it for her. He carefully tucked a hand beneath her head and the other behind her kneecaps and lifted her into his arms. He slowly stood up as he felt her arms wrap around his neck and then he took off, holding her tightly against him.

Her fingers would dig into his shoulder blades whenever he hopped over a largely-rooted tree or make a sharp turn. "Stop running," she mumbled into his ear. "If anyone catches us, just tell them you caught me sleep-walking and that you're returning me to my chamber."

"I don't think that excuse will convince them," he replied, running pass a familiar crooked tree. "You don't sleep-walk; you hardly do anything in your sleep actually. One would believe you to be dead from a distance."

She chuckled, feeling her sleepy smile against his neck. "I don't make the brightest ideas in the early morning, do I?"

He laughed breathlessly. "Kat and John more than likely already have something prepared for us. When your privy chamber comes to greet you, you can tell them to let you sleep some more. It is Sunday, after all."

"Thank God for the day of blessed rest," she murmured and he laughed again.

The castle quickly came into his line of sight and he dashed over to the back side of the structure, to the door he snuck out of a few hours ago. He slowed to a stop and tried to control his breathing before slowly turning the handle with the hand that tucked underneath Elizabeth's knees. He peeked inside and when he didn't see anybody, he went inside and gently closed the door behind him, without so much a sound (which he was utterly grateful for).

He quickly and quietly snuck through the castle with a very drowsy Elizabeth still grasped closely in his arms. He finally came upon her chamber door and opened it. He closed the door with the back of his foot and then hurried over to Elizabeth's made-up bed. His arms relaxed as they lowered his queen, his wife onto the big, colorful bed, tucking her in. Just as he was about to leave the room, Elizabeth, her eyes still closed, reached out a droopy hand and called out, "Wait."

He backtracked to the side of her bed. "What is it?"

"Kiss me before you go."

He smirked, yet did as she asked. He tilted up her chin with a single finger and gave a gentle but meaningful kiss. "Get some more sleep," he told her when he broke away, pushing her messy hair back from her face. "I'll see you again in a few hours."

"Thank you," he heard her whisper and it took almost everything in him to not lean down and kiss her again.

He swiftly left the room and silently shut the door. A sharp point of fear stabbed his chest when he heard several footsteps gaining up—her privy chamber. He rushed down the hall and whipped behind a corner where he halted, checking to see if they heard him at all. The cluster of footsteps all slowly came to a stop and then a low knock replaced it. "My queen?" came the voice of Kat Ashley.

Arthur's racing heart eased somewhat when he heard the door creak open. _Good. They hadn't heard me. Either way Kat, I know, would protect me if they did._

A few soundless moments had passed before the door creaked again, this time closing shut. "Her Majesty requests some more time to herself," said Kat to the rest of the ladies. "Let her sleep for a few more hours. It is Sunday, after all."

Arthur bit firmly down on the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing aloud as he hurried down the hall in the opposite direction.

* * *

[1] Elizabeth thought it was important to make regular public appearances for the people of England and would often just stroll through town and talk with them about how she could improve the kingdom (fun fact: she even tried keeping tabs on who was who by writing down the names of the citizens she spoke to). She also _hated_ Parliament and only called them to order 10 times during her 44-year reign.

[2] Elizabeth was a HUGE flirt. She often led a cat-and-mouse chase with her many suitors, all of which fell for her before she broke any engagement she had with them and sent them back to their home country. She certainly didn't mind all the attention she got as queen and knew that she was hot stuff. (Can't blame her for being a little egotistical when she was forced to be in the shadows and looked down upon all her childhood life though.)

[3] Though many praised Elizabeth, there were plenty of people who didn't approve of her being on the English throne. There were Catholic uprisings or riots that planned to overthrow her and replace her with Mary, Queen of Scots (we'll come to her in a few chapters), all of which failed miserably. Other rulers like King Philip II of Spain and even the Pope himself declared her a royal bastard, saying she was never allowed the position of queen.

[4] We see Elizabeth often dressed up to the max with big, fancy gowns and cool tricks done to her hair, but whenever she didn't have anything going on for the day, she wore simple and easy-fitting clothes. She was a fashionista, but just like the rest of us, there were some days when she'd rather just stay home and wear sweatpants.

[5] In medieval England, it didn't take much to become legally married to someone. It was expected that everyone should get permission from their lord (this only happened with nobles) and you didn't need to have sex with your partner in order for it to be a valid marriage. A "wed" is an example of a physical consent that was needed between the bride and groom which is basically giving a gift to your partner; it was often a ring. No marriage contract was needed as your word taken by the ears of a priest was considered good enough and God was apparently the ultimate witness and you didn't need a bunch of people to see your wedding (unless you wanted backup for any potential issues in the future). Basically, you could literally get married in a pub with a priest who didn't care and bring some cheap necklace as a gift to your partner and it would be considered legal—boy, have times changed.

[6] I guess I should also mention that Elizabeth often gave playful nicknames to her favorites in court. Such names included "my eyes", "my spirit", and "my little frog" (that one was saved for François, Duke of Anjou, her last courter) so expect some cute nicknames from her.

[7] This was true: Elizabeth fangirled over magic. Although the burning of witches was still a deadly thing during that time (her mother was accused of being one after all), Elizabeth found an interest in many weird things that her people would be frightened of: magic, science, astrology, even alchemy. She also enjoyed the famous King Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table myths and stories (Himaruya probably chose Arthur as England's human name for that reason—you know that fictional king that went around with his band of followers in search of the Holy Grail? Yeah, that guy.)

[8] John Dee was Elizabeth's personal scientific and medical advisor; he was also her tutor while growing up. The dude was a genius and a madman, playing a huge part in the making of the British Empire. Among his wonderful madness included predicting future events in star constellations, creating a device in order to speak to angels, and helping construct the British Intelligence Service by writing letters in codes, signing them with two circles (representing eyes) and a 7 (an alchemist's lucky number). Did anyone else think of James Bond's 007?

[9] English folklore and myths (or the British Isles in general) can range to all sorts of stuff from cute little faeries and mischievous dwarves to fire-breathing dragons and black dogs from hell. All the classic legends you've heard that don't have a lot of specifics to them probably came from one of the British Isles. A lot of mystery and cliffhanger stories come from English folklore whereas other countries like Norway and Japan have whole other worlds and seem to know everything about their fictional creatures.

[10] A "cunning" man or woman can be a multitude of things, but they all mainly revolve around being a witch or wizard. They were professionals in dabbling with magic and would use their spells to heal others, locate criminals, predict the future, or to even combat evil witchcraft. They weren't described as horrible witches that sold their souls to the devil (they were actually useful and usually friendly), but that's what some people thought and laws were passed to condemn the practice of magic and witch hunts were established.

[11] Cute fact about Elizabeth: Though she tended to wake up early, she wasn't a morning person. It always took her forever to get ready not only clothing and makeup-wise, but also personality-wise in the mornings. She would also go to bed later, usually around midnight or so—girl, I totally feel you.


	14. Cry Because It's Over

****That horrible, horrible moment when you lose an entire chapter that you'd been working on all week because you'd been writing in a place with no wi-fi but you'd thought everything would be fine anyway. (Everything was not fine—I'm still bitter about retyping this whole thing.)**

 **Thank you to all the supporting comments I got from the last chapter; it helped me write this one quickly and effectively despite my little panic-attack. (Thanks ChildOfTheMoon86 for your interesting piece of info—I told my American family and friends that raccoons and fireflies aren't native to England and we were all weirded out by it and then blamed ourselves for probably sending those dumpster-diving crazies to you guys.)**

 **Enjoy the chapter and I'll see you in the next one!****

 _30 March 2017_

The city lights were much too bright for his droopy eyes, the electrical rays more damaging than the sun's. Every time a car honked or someone yelled or a drill hammer vibrated against the sidewalk, a needle-point of pain would stab his brain. It took a great effort to put one foot in front of the other for each step felt like he was lumbering through a lake of quicksand. He could smell the alcohol on his own breath and the briefcase in his right hand weighed as much as an old typewriter.

He was having a very difficult time trying to watch where he was going. His vision right now was like peering out a windshield on a rainy day—he could see bold and obvious outlines, but failed to catch specific details. He squinted, searching for the hotel he was staying in for the night, although he knew he was fully intoxicated and wasn't sure how he'd find it in this condition.

 _It's your own bloody fault,_ his reasonable side pointed out. _No one else told you to swallow God know how many pints of whiskey in one sitting and you know perfectly well that you can't hold your liquor worth for shit. God, I'm gonna have_ such _a hangover._

 _I didn't do it because I wanted to,_ his drunk, somber ass argued, _I did it because I had to. Kiku shared his depressing Nagasaki story because he felt sorry for me, for my loss. My sorrow was infecting others; if I can't remember Lizzie, then I won't get sad and if I won't sad, then no one else will have to know._

 _The only thing you're going to forget is the walk to the hotel and this useless debate,_ Reason insisted. _You should know that no matter how hard you try, you can't escape, much less forget, your past. So, why don't you quit sinking in your own pity party, grow up, and face the inevitable? Everybody knows, stupid fuck, and there's nothing you can do about it._

 _Only the other countries and a few government officials truly know about Elizabeth and I,_ Depression protested. _I got rid of any documents that had proof of our marriage shortly after her…passing. Every mortal on this planet believes her to be the Virgin Queen—all according to her plan. Now stop thinking of her; I just need…some sleep…_

Arthur went on dragging his feet and peering through the glaring lights as Reason and Depression quarreled endlessly, solving and learning nothing.

He didn't notice the occasional raindrops until they grew into a downpour.

The crowd reduced somewhat—people covered their heads with whatever they had (a hoodie, a spare umbrella, a purse or backpack) and scurried off for a warm, dry place. Citizens either weren't bothered by the unexpected weather or they were tourists and decided they were going to get their money's worth, rain or no rain. Arthur paused for a moment to stare up at the dark sky and feel the cool water splash against his skin. It quickly soaked his hair and clung to his suit—it now felt heavy on his body like it was a size too big for him.

 _Taiwan and South Korea must be disappointed with the weather, being in the middle of Central Park and all,_ Arthur—not Reason or Depression—thought. _I wonder where Japan is leading them: under a nice shady tree or an entirely different area? He's a sensible and thoughtful fellow; they're probably underneath a tree, waiting for the rain to pass._

He stumbled on, letting the sky's tears drench his person as he kept trying to search for the hotel.

In order to keep distracting himself from dreaming of a certain redhead, he decided to count how many steps he was taking; he needed something to focus on that wouldn't cause him a heartache, so counting footfalls shouldn't be too difficult, right?

 _One, two, three, four, four—wait, I already said four—five, six, seven…eight? Yes, eight. Nine, ten, eleven—_

A sudden nausea gripped at his throat and he choked it back. He gave up on counting and quickly ran into the nearest and darkest alleyway he could find. Once he reached it and was convinced that the shadows had swallowed him whole to keep him from any wandering eyes of nearby citizens and tourists, he tossed his briefcase to the side, dropped on his knees, and threw whatever had been in his stomach onto the rough pavement.

The pouring rain was loud enough to somewhat drown out the sickening sounds he made. The strong, sour taste in his mouth and the horrid aroma made him vomit all over again. He squeezed his eyes shut so he wouldn't have to see the mess he created. He knew he wasn't quite done throwing up whatever was left in the pit of his stomach, but he didn't want to sit there in a dark alleyway, in the middle of a rainstorm, puking his guts out—it was the lowest branch of shame and he had just enough dignity (though barely) to pick himself back up.

Swallowing whatever was left in his mouth, he let out a strangled grunt as the acid slid down his throat and fell back into his stomach. He sat back and crawled away until his spine hit the hard surface of a brick building. A sharp pain ripped through his right hand and shot up his arm like a missile; he bit his bottom lip to muffle a low cry.

Panting, he glanced down at his hand. He could vaguely see little pieces of brown glass stuck in his palm. Blood swelled around the shards and dripped down the sides of his hand. If he'd been sober, he would've spotted the shattered beer bottle off to the side, but with his intoxicated brain, the hammering rain, and the black sky, it was just another blurry obstacle.

He stared at his injured palm, memorized by the black blood spilling quickly. He brushed his thumb over the tips of the glass; it moved slightly but another loud burst of pain erupted throughout his limb. He grunted once more and then fell silent. His hesitation was brief and his common sense was wobbly and that's all it took for the alcohol to persuade his trembling fingers to wrap into a fist, pushing the glass deeper into his wound.

He couldn't bite back the scream that burned his throat. The splintering agony rippled through his body as if lightning just struck him, popping every vein, frying every organ. Now all the pain he felt didn't only come from his palm—yes, his hand begged him to stop, to take out the pieces and rush himself to the nearest hospital, yet it felt like nothing more than a bee's sting compared to the damage done to his heart, the perpetrator his memory.

His throbbing screams altered to broken sobs. He tore at his chest (with his unharmed hand), loosening his tie and accidently snapping one of the buttons on his shirt off. He went on scratching though—his goal was to rip out his own heart and fling it into a gutter. He didn't want to feel the gaping hole anymore; anything would be better than to have the constant reminder that something was missing wedged inside him. But all he could do was leave behind red lines on his pale skin.

A frustrated cry fled from his lips when he failed, but he tried again anyway, desperation and overbearing grief driving him onward. He managed to cut himself; a small drop of blood welled near his collarbone and he dragged his fingernails over the opening, more skin tearing away, more blood spilling.

Two hands grabbed at his own and pulled it away from himself. He flinched violently at the narrow but warm fingers, its familiarity all too real. He automatically knew the owner of those hands, so it didn't surprise him when he heard their calm and soothing voice say, "Stop, stop. It's alright, you're alright."

He cried quietly, eyes peering toward the ground. He saw her body kneeling in front of him, but he refused to look into her eyes. She wore the same attire as she did on their wedding night except now she was drenched from head to foot. The rainwater had somewhat tamed her wild curls, her burgundy dress was now a plum purple, and her snow-white toes were buried under a growing puddle of water and blood. He saw her squeeze his hand in both of hers and run her thumbs over his knuckles; he wasn't sure if he was happy or too exhausted to see her.

"Why must you hurt yourself so?" Elizabeth asked, her tone as peaceful as ever.

He sniffed, trying to deflate some of the air in his lungs before he answered curtly, "I'm just dulling the pain that you've caused. It was working just fine before you showed up."

"You weren't going to get anywhere, you know that." She sighed softly. "We both knew this was to happen, sooner or later. I had to go and you had to stay. There was no other way around it."

"You could've declined my marriage proposal from the start. Yes, it would've stung, but I would've gotten over it. I wouldn't be in this position if things ended up that way."

"Arthur, my darling, you—"

"Don't call me that!" he shouted, finally meeting her gaze. Her expression was neutral though he noted the slight tilt of her eyebrows and her lips. Rain trickled down her facial features and splashed against her hooked nose. She looked exactly the same as she did over four hundred years ago, and it killed him.

"Don't speak to me as though you're still alive," he snarled, his voice slurring through drunkenness and mourning. "You think you're helping, but you're not. You're dead, gone, erased from life. There's nothing left for you to do on earth, so why don't you go back to your grave and let me be. Just stop…hurting me."

He glared down at the wet floor again, so she wouldn't have to see the pathetic look in his eyes. Elizabeth said nothing for a while, only held his hand, smoothing it over again and again like it was a frightened cat that needed to be restrained. She eventually let go of him and then shuffled forward, so that she sat beside him against the wall.

He exhaled, his breath shaky. "I'm sor—"

"No need for apologizes," she interrupted; there was no indication in her voice or movements that she'd been hurt by his words. "I know you don't mean what you say—that's the whiskey speaking." She smirked. "You haven't gotten drunk on my account in quite a while. Let's see, when was the last time? I believe it was on my birthday sometime during the nineteen-sixties. Luckily, you were back in the comfort of your own home and only broke a couple antiques in your drunken state. But now you're in another country, in an empty alleyway, in the middle of a rainstorm." He sensed her eyes on him and the hefty humiliation he felt earlier gradually reset itself on his shoulders. "Not to mention you're tearing and stabbing yourself like you're a fucking pin cushion."[1]

She pried apart his bloody fist and he once again jolted at her touch. Hallucination or not, everything about her seemed unbelievably real. She began to pluck out the glass shards one by one from his open palm which he couldn't feel anymore—he was only aware of her warm hands and his lightheadedness. He watched her work, swaying some, as he listened to her ramble underneath her breath.

"I know you to be a clever man, Arthur, but sometimes you can be rather fucking imprudent. How was this to solve anything? Not only are you wrecking your own hands, but you actually attempted to rip out your own heart." She shook her head, her fuzzy head gently sweeping against his tear-stained cheek. "You say I'm hurting you and that I should stop, but I'm afraid I can't. To love someone is to hurt someone; it is mightily difficult to separate those two, especially for those in our case. But still, we knew the consequences and jumped right in; it was us against the world. Your heart is awfully heavy, my darling—it needs attention and care and nurturing and mustn't touch the ground. But I still carry it and give it everything it needs and I will continue to do so; I would hold it like a mother holds a newborn child even if it weighed as much as the moon. I know you still do the same for me. But, my God, you've _got_ to stop doing this: making your suffering as a way of living.

"Something has to change, Arthur. If nothing does, then it'll happen again: you'll get upset, I won't be able to stop you, and the pain will consume you whole. I suggest—no, I demand as your late queen—" she grinned at her macabre joke "to move on to something else. If you won't, then we're forced to keep on strangling one another, our pain outdoing our love."

He shifted around so that his body faced hers (it required more effort than necessary: his limbs rapidly grew numb and even though he was leaning against a sturdy brick wall, he still felt as if he were walking on a tightrope). Elizabeth paused, holding a short splinter of glass between her pointer finger and thumb, her pale skin stained with his filthy blood. With a quivering hand, he reached out and tried grasping her other hand, to hold it, to feel it, but he couldn't quite get his fingers to work correctly and ended up smearing more blood around her wrist and forearm.

His face crumbled as he slurred out, "I can't…stop loving you."

"And that's not what I'm asking."

Elizabeth dropped the piece into the small pile of plucked glass between them; it landed with an audible _clink!_ He peered at his hand. Either she'd successfully removed all the shards from his palm or he was so high he couldn't see pass the intoxicating haze. He raised his heavy eyelids to Elizabeth's wide and determined eyes once he felt her lovely hands cup his face and lifted it toward hers. He grew aware of his weakening senses: he no longer felt his bleeding wounds, he couldn't smell the rain or blood or alcohol, even Elizabeth's form began to melt into the watercolor painting that made up his eyesight. Thus he struggled to focus on the warmth in her fingers, so he wouldn't submit to the powerful force of enervation.

"I want you to find peace, Arthur," she explained. "A self-satisfying resolution. Anything that will make you sleep better at night. Perhaps you need a good friend or two to keep you company or maybe you should listen to your current queen's advice and take a personal holiday. I know you have much more life left to live for I didn't construct the great British empire for no reason, so do change your lifestyle to something more comfortable; live as happily as you can for the rest of your days. Teach yourself to keep on marching forward, to know that it's okay to cry sometimes. Do all this but remember that others will come love you—much like sweet-hearted Victoria or that courageous Churchill—and you may love them back, but none will ever cherish you as much as I do."[2]

He barely caught her last few words, her voice dying away like a subaquatic cry. The comforting touch of her soft lips upon his forehead couldn't be felt he was so terribly numb. And then, in the blink of a weary eye, her body was gone, swallowed whole by the increasing darkness that clouded his vision.

His arms stretched out to grab her absent ghost. "Eliza—" he started but was cut off by his own weight crashing forward onto the wet asphalt, his chin and hands smacking against the dirty puddles below. Only a small twinge snapped through his nerves and then left swiftly as it came. He grunted into the pavement, attempting to push himself back onto his feet, but the overwhelming mass of exhaustion had already taken control of his body. He gave up easily and closed his eyes. He wanted to leave this place, he really did, but he was just so tired, so very tired…

Among the ringing of his ears, he heard a distant call from outside his mind; it sounded like his name—Arthur—but he was too far gone to question who the caller was and how they knew him. A moment later, a broad hand grasped his left elbow and then yanked it back, the same stranger speaking in a low and muddled tone to which he failed to comprehend anything that was being said to him. Sitting back on his heels now, Arthur peeled open his eyelids and rolled back his head to inspect the stranger; he groaned in defeat once he realized that their face was just as mangled as the rest of the city backdrop.

This unknown individual was not gentle in their assistance, however: they roughly jerked him back to his feet and knocked the end of a rectangular-shaped object (presumably his briefcase) into his tailbone, forcing him to stand straighter. They slung his arm around the back of their neck and then began nudging him out toward the street again.

Arthur was partly relieved that the stranger had enough muscle to pluck him from the ground and shove his drunk ass out of that miserable alleyway, but he was also annoyed that someone interrupted his opportunity to finally sleep. It was easier to fall into a slumber whilst on the floor (no matter what that floor is) and he knew that it was highly likely that he'd doze off while being half-carried half-dragged by this oddly persistent stranger. His legs moved as if they were made of jelly and he kept on muttering some incoherent words under his whiskey breath that even he couldn't understand (he was either weeping about Elizabeth or telling the helper to go fuck themselves).

He lasted longer than he thought though; despite the all the alcohol weighing him down, he kept shifting his legs forward and holding his droopy lids open, aimed at his shoes. But he eventually lost the long, hard battle against unconsciousness and the last thing he remembered before dropping everything—his weight, his wakefulness, his pride—was how colorful and lively New York City lights looked like, even in the cold, bucketing rain.

He couldn't stop the enormous tide of memories that came next.

* * *

[1] Elizabeth, though had the manners and adequacy of a queen, often cursed like a sailor. During her rageful fits in court, she'd drop a colorful range of swear words from f-bombs to English slang (which usually translated to calling people masturbaters, pussies, tits, and overall a pain in the ass). I find this hilarious in every single aspect.

[2] Queen Victoria and Winston Churchill are very important figures in British history. Victoria's 63 year reign saw many changes in England including the Industrial Revolution, a bigger expansion of the British empire (she was crowned Empress of India during this time), and she shifted political power into a more constitutional monarchy. Winston was the prime minister during WWII but also participated in WWI (he was a war reporter in South Africa). He motivated England to stand their ground and push back against the Nazis with excellent military strategies, inspirational speeches, and adopted the famous "V for Victory" salute (this grew widely popular around the world and was later used in the Vietnam war against America to stand for peace).


	15. New Threats

****And now it's time for a flow of heartbreaking memories!** **Cool history facts and character development straight ahead!**

 **Hope y'all enjoy!****

 _13 October 1562_

Arthur knew that Elizabeth wouldn't live forever, but the looming presence of death came quicker and weighed heavier than he would've predicted.

Two weeks ago, the Queen of England came down with an awful cold. She'd have sudden coughing fits that would leave her with a red-face and watery eyes. Court members would ask her if she needed a glass of wine or required a short break so she could go outside and catch some fresh air, but she denied them every time, claiming she felt fine before scribbling more notes down. Kat took note of her symptoms and her inner worried nanny sprung out and suggested to Elizabeth to take some time off work (she insisted that she was too much of a workhorse and was probably stressing herself out) and even offered to call for a doctor to check up on her. Again the queen rejected any silly proposals; "I am running an entire kingdom, my dear Kat," she countered, "thus my people's needs always come before mine."

Arthur idolized her selflessness and ambition to get things done, but he too eventually begged her to stop going to court as time strolled on, revealing deadlier signs of sickness. Her coughing fits grew harsher and uncontrollable, leaving her gasping for breath. Her skin was hot to the touch and sweat would bead around her hairline like she just arrived from a long, hard ride with Cannon. But what frightened him the most was the small red spots that popped up along her fingers and hands.

Royal doctors and physicians were brought to the castle to study her, to find a way to cure her of the "cold" she'd received. They came to her bedchamber daily to check her rising fever and the slow progress of red bumps appearing over her body. Their heads would shake slightly as they wrote down their personal notes and asked the queen to stay in bed and to drink lots of ale. Everyone began to panic (including Arthur) when she brushed off the doctors' orders as if they were nothing more than a pesky flea and went on with her queenly duties.

On the tenth of October, the medics, worried for her well-being yet annoyed with her uncooperativeness, told Elizabeth that she was infected with smallpox[1] and that her life was in serious danger. She hesitated, pondering to herself as she examined each face surrounding her: Cecil frowned through his bushy beard as if he'd suspected she had the disease long before she was diagnosed, Kat clamped a hand over her mouth just as a terrified squeak escaped her, and Arthur had no idea what expression he wore, but whatever it was, it made Elizabeth stare momentarily before finally announcing, "I will resign from my obligations until this specific complication resolves itself. Do not fear, gentlemen, for I highly doubt a few little dots will be the end of me."

The proclamation was supposed to be audacious and daring, he figured, yet he could easily sense the dread bubbling not only within himself but also in those around them.

For the next three days, Elizabeth was put under bed-arrest (or was attempted to anyway) as the doctors continued poking and prodding her while court members began pleading for a named successor.[2] She, nevertheless, remained her stubborn self by disobeying treatment instructions and staying silent—and quite offended—about a potential replacement for the English throne.

"Drop the quill and lay down already," he scolded her, irritation and anxiety churning in the pit of his stomach. "You _have_ to get some rest, Elizabeth."

"I don't _have_ to do anything," she replied curtly. "I feel fine."

"If you're going to lie, then do so properly. I can sense your increasing temperature from over here—it's as if the humid air of Spain bedded the scorching sands of Greece."

"Yet none shall be as fiery as your hotheaded temper."

"That's a rather bold statement coming from you."

"Silence, you ass!"

Early morning sunshine and chirps from hardworking finches seeped into the room through the open balcony doors. A chilly breeze periodically swept by, gusting through the curtains and tapestries hanging about the chamber. Arthur stood next to the exposed threshold with crossed arms and furrowed eyebrows. His glare bore into Elizabeth's temple which he knew she was trying her best to ignore—she went on jotting down personal records and professional letters.

As all the physicians, servants, and other royal workers exited Elizabeth's bedchamber the last few nights, Arthur would always stay behind, silent as the very walls around them. His gaze would be nailed to the floor as he tried his best to control the nervous breaths he took and the panicked beating of his heart. Worse scenarios had a special way of always creeping up on him first and burying themselves deep into his brain. Although he never said a word about his fear of losing Elizabeth, she seemed to understand it all by spreading out her arms and saying nothing in return, patiently waiting for him to fold into her embrace.

"Everything will be okay," she had whispered to him as they laid in each other's arms, but it was hard to believe that when she refused to do anything to save herself, causing that same fear to grow even more when he thought it couldn't anymore.

When he awoke that morning, he found the space next to him empty and peered up through sleep-crusted eyes to find Elizabeth standing at her desk, writing away. He asked her then to come back to bed and she said she would in a moment's time. He ended up falling asleep again and, once his eyelids peeled open roughly two hours later, she was still planted by the bureau, the tip of her quill stirring rapidly.

And that's how the dispute started.

"Now's not the time to be spiteful," he argued. "Whether you want to admit it or not, you're sick and you need assistance. The very least you can do is lay down and _sleep._ Everything else is being done for you; just let people do their jobs, Elizabeth."[3]

She coughed into her fist—it was loud and raspy as if she were trying to breathe through thick linen—for a while before throwing a waterlogged scowl his way. "You're correct, Arthur: people need to do their jobs by supporting me in running a country. I can manage my being just fine."

"Denying everything and everyone is not called managing, it's called destroying. How is going against experienced physicians fixing your situation in any way? Please do explain your reasoning for me because I honestly don't understand any of it."

"It doesn't matter what sort of minor difficulties we run into—what matters is continuing to work pass them. I'm not allowing these tiny red bumps to ruin any of my plans for the kingdom, for the people." Her nose scrunched up in aggravation. "Why can't anyone comprehend that?"

Arthur took Elizabeth's spotted arm—the one that controlled the shifting quill—rather roughly so that she would face him fully. As he did so, the pen jerked across the message she was writing, sending a thin black line through the paper. She inhaled sharply at the mistake and then looked at him through narrowed eyes; he was perfectly aware of how angry she was yet he was more aware of how utterly fatigued she seemed.

Her hairline and skin were damp with her own sweat, glistening in the bright sunlight. The smallpox was painfully obvious against her smooth, white flesh, although there weren't too many of them. Some were sprinkled upon her jaw, neck, and shoulders, but most were scattered amongst her arms and hands. Her lips were badly chapped and the whites of her eyes had a slight tint of red due to her terrible coughing fits and lack of good sleep. The sight brought fear and sickly worry to his heart which was why he chose to keep yelling at her.

"This isn't a 'minor difficulty', Elizabeth," he fired back, his voice a little louder this time. "You have smallpox, and I don't believe you know just how much danger you're in. No good will come from this unless you save yourself first. If you continue with this nonsense, Parliament will keep asking for your successor and you will feel even worse than you already do—and don't you dare tell me that you feel fine because I know you do not, not at all."

"Arthur—"

"You could _die,_ do you know that? In fact, you're much closer to the grasp of death now because of your failure to recognize your own sickly state. I've seen what this illness can do to human beings: it either leaves disfiguring scars on the 'lucky' survivors or brings heartache and misery to the family of the deceased. The sick don't depart quickly nor easily. They suffer through every moment, knowing nothing but the pain and their dooming fate. Is that what you want? Do you wish to go on with this sickness, to endure its torment instead of trying to heal yourself?"

"Arthur, you're—"

"I'm what?" he nearly shouted to which Elizabeth slapped a hand over his mouth, fearful of someone hearing him outside in the gardens or behind the closed chamber door. He, still fuming over it all, glowered at her wide eyes and ajar lips, an appearance of shock and concern spreading across her features. He didn't stop to think as to why that was until she whispered, "You're crying."

At first, he didn't believe her—he didn't even think he heard her correctly—but he froze once he felt a slippery tear slide down his cheek. And then another. And then another.

"Fucking hell," he muttered as he turned around, rubbing at his eyes and face with the back of his wrist. He walked to the other side of the room where Elizabeth's bed sat, his bare feet smacking against the hardwood flooring, the puffy sleeves of his loose linen shirt swaying slightly in the breeze. He kept smearing at his eyes, even though he knew there weren't anymore tears to erase.

He couldn't believe what he did just now. As a young nation, he was taught (or rebuked more so) by his elder brothers to never cry in public, before a female, before his ruler, or anyone for that matter. They told him it was a sign of weakness and showing any form of it was unacceptable. Overtime, he learned to toughen up and quickly swallow any crippling emotion that would render him frail. But somehow it snuck up on him and now here he was, furiously removing the traces of visible fear on his cheeks so his wife, his _queen,_ wouldn't see.

Something behind him fell to the floor with a soft _clink_ and then the recognizable patter of Elizabeth's footsteps hurrying across the floorboards echoed after it. Not a moment later did he feel her body press against his back and her arms protectively wrap across his chest. Besides the slow, uneven breaths he carefully took and the low, repressed grunts she struggled to take, quiet hung in the air between them—it was hefty with unspoken doubts and guilty apologizes.

"I've never seen you cry before," Elizabeth murmured into Arthur's shoulder, clutching his shirt tightly.

"And it was supposed to stay that way." He combed his fingers through his fringe, took a deep breath, and then lightly patted one of her constricted fists, hoping his "I'm okay" façade would pass for her. "But I'm alright, love. You can let me go now."

She made a sound of disbelief (or a nasty cough) and only held him tighter. "I'll do anything but. Don't tell me lies in attempt to conceal your shame; it is I that should feel shame. I thought the poxes would only harm my body, but I failed to stop and think that it could injure your mind as well. I'm terribly sorry for harming you."

He felt her chapped lips peck the back of his neck before hot clouds burst against his skin as horrible wheezing sounds came from Elizabeth's mouth. He easily broke out of her grasp and whirled around, panicking once again. Not really knowing what he was to do, his hands gripped her arms and slowly pulled her into his chest. It wasn't a hug, not really—he didn't squeeze her body or run his hand through her hair or gave any sort of physical affection. He just held her there, still as a statue, as Elizabeth continued to hack away, her hands covering her mouth to muffle the noise. Her bare skin felt bumpy with the poxes and sticky with her own sweat, but he held on nevertheless; he waited until the long and body-trembling fit passed that left her winded, her clammy forehead resting against his collarbone.

Another soundless moment swam between them before he heard a raspy "Fucking hell" beneath him.

He grinned and slowly dragged his hand up and down her spine. "Does the apology mean I can take care of you?"

She sniffed and rubbed her nose. "Not particularly."

He frowned again. "Well, can you _at least_ get some sleep like I asked you to _two hours ago_?"

She chuckled. "Oh, I suppose so, although I'm not sure which persuaded me more: your aching heart or the stress you put into each word in that sentence."

A small sigh of relief escaped him, yet he assumed Elizabeth could still feel his heartbeat pounding wildly against his chest. When he shifted to move from her, she swiftly grabbed his wrist, almost in a panic.

"Wait," she mumbled.

He looked down at her, confused.

"I know you have other duties to attend to, but can you stay for a while? Until I fall asleep?"

He took the hand that held his wrist and intertwined their fingers together. "Of course I will," he whispered back before placing his lips to her forehead.

He guided her to the bed and sat cross-legged upon the tousled covers and misplaced pillows. She crawled onto the bed, setting her head in his lap. As she shifted around to make herself comfortable, he began playing with her hair; her mane draped over his legs like a warm blanket and his fingers absentmindedly dug into her curls or twisted them into loose braids.

She finally settled down and heaved a stifled sigh. They stayed mute for some time, both waiting for sleep to arrive. He completed three separate braids when Elizabeth spoke up, her voice still low and hoarse: "Have you ever been infected with the smallpox before?"

He glanced at her face in interest; her eyes were closed and a thoughtful expression adorned her features. _Always thinking of something, aren't you?_ he groaned internally. _Can't relax for more than two minutes apparently._

"Once some time ago," he admitted, preparing a fourth braid. "I believe it was in 1491. Your grandfather, Henry the seventh, was on the throne during that time and your father was born in the summer, I remember. But shortly after his birth I caught the disease; it was a surprise that nobody wanted, I of all people. Your grandfather had always been deathly afraid of illness and, with your father being new to the world, he banished me from court until I got better. I was stuck in my quarters for about two weeks, doctors coming and going, not knowing how to fix me. I was next to useless and it angered me, but I still followed Henry's orders and eventually the poxes faded away like how most sicknesses do with me. The scars lasted a while, however—I received plenty of stares and horrified gasps as I walked up and down the corridors. It took a great deal of convincing your grandfather that I was no longer sick, just recovering in my own strange way."

"Were you in pain?"

"Yes, just like you are now: I couldn't breathe, my skin burned, my appearance disgusted people. Well, luckily for them, they didn't have to witness me over a hundred years prior when I shared a deadly relationship with the Black Death."[4]

Elizabeth's eyelids flew open, her chestnut-brown irises locked onto his pine-green ones. "You caught…how in the world—?"

"Excitement is a bad sentiment to possess when one is struggling to rest," he stated firmly. He added a quirked eyebrow to the deadpan expression he was giving to the sickly woman.

Taking the hint, she shut her lids once more. "I'm not excited—simply curious is all."

He grinned crookedly, but continued with his story: "I caught the plague more than once actually. The first time was in 1351 and then again in 1358 and then once more in 1367. The infection lasted longer and the symptoms seemed harsher than what mortals were accustomed to. The suffering was great, not only for myself but for all my people, all of Europe. I wanted—no, I _needed_ —to assist others during those horrific times, but I ended up doing more harm than good. The sickness within me seeped through and infested them, people dying on my account now. My presence didn't calm or reassure anyone either—it frightened them more than anything. I remember the black skin on my fingers flaking away, my breath coming and going in ragged gasps, those large swells under my arms and neck that oozed with my own blood and pus. I must've not looked any different from all the rotting bodies that littered the streets…"

He trailed off, as did his construction of Elizabeth's braid. Incomplete, it laid limp in his palms, his gaze now trained on those lethal red bumps, his ears tuned in to her husky inhales and exhales. He sighed through his nostrils and let go of the braid. "I shouldn't be telling you all of this," he muttered.

She opened her eyes again, peeking at his somber expression. A moment's hesitancy floated between them before her skeletal fingers curled around his own and gave a weak squeeze.

"So much shame and sorrow in one morning," she remarked quietly. "What must be done to diminish these aches? I assure you I will not die from this sickness; God didn't give me a husband and a throne only to keep for two years just to throw it all away. He knows how hard we worked in order to get where we are now, so I highly doubt he'll do the unreasonable thing and kill me—he's smarter than that."

As she spoke, she released his hand and ran her fingers through the unfinished loop that laid across Arthur's knee, stroking its fuzzy knots. "But I can understand your worry, however. My body is frailer than yours: mortal versus immortal, woman versus man. I was born to fail while you live on reason and strength. Physically, I am weak and feeble, but my motivation is stronger than most men, nearly every king at that. Therefore, try not to let your stresses get the best of you, my darling, for I will soon be rid of—"

Elizabeth's eyes broadened unexpectedly and he tensed up vividly. Awful predictions came to his mind first and he opened his mouth to demand what was becoming of her.

When she pulled back the hand that fondled with her hair, he realized what the matter was once he noticed the small braid still weaved between her fingers, detached from her head.

His shoulders slumped at the sight: a dreadful look filled her eyes as she gaped at her own lock of hair, the loose twists coming undone and slipping through her grasp, softly landing onto the wrinkled bedspreads. Struck with impermanent muteness, her stare followed the strands helplessly as if she were watching her life crumble, her grip useless. This expression showered Arthur in guilt and he yearned for that fearless aspect she usually displayed so beautifully.

Dismayed and a little brokenhearted, she cautiously reached out to scoop up the fallen curls, but was held back by his gentle clutch around her knuckles. He knotted their fingers together as he brought the back of her hand to his cheek and murmured, "It's better to lose a lock of hair than to lose your soul."

Nothing else was uttered for the half hour it took for her to fall asleep. He sat there, still, patient. His gaze remained on her person for some time once unconsciousness took over her mind. He wished to stay and keep watch of her sleeping form, but Elizabeth was right: he had other responsibilities to attend to, many given to him by the queen herself. He knew she would be pleased if progress were to be made despite the noxious circumstances.

 _Anything to make her smile again,_ he decided as he slowly and carefully moved away from the slumbering woman in his lap.

He grabbed the nearest pillow, gently raised her head, lowered it onto the cushion, and then stealthily crept out of the way. The bed creaked slightly once his weight lifted from it; he paused for a minute as Elizabeth shifted in her sleep, a gruff exhale leaving her dry lips. When she became limp again, he bent down and gathered a jerkin, trousers, and a pair of boots from beneath the bed. It was the only place where he could keep some of his personal belongings within Elizabeth's private chambers—her small band of ladies went through the desk drawers and the closet multiple times a day, so he resorted to the spot where they would never check unless given orders.

He dressed himself properly and stole a glance at his reflection in the looking glass upon the cluttered bureau. His hair was a bit tousled and his fingers automatically tried to tame it. He couldn't do anything about the dishearten look on his face, however (he learned overtime that if he forced himself to smile while in a depressed mood, the result appeared rather eerie so he didn't even try to look content anymore).

He strolled over to the door, rested his hand on the knob, and took one last look at Elizabeth, attempting to not notice the red poxes on her skin and the separate braid by her side.

A heavy sigh escaped from him before he turned to leave.

He didn't open the door fully, but instead pulled it open a crack and peeked outside for any wandering servants or nobles crossing the hallway. No sign of life was to be seen and he quietly stepped out and closed the door behind him. He adjusted his vest as he walked down the hall and went to round a corner, but halted abruptly as he almost bumped into someone going the opposite way.

"Ah, pardon me," he mumbled politely, but his attitude instantly changed when he recognized the person before him.

Count de Feria. The Spanish Ambassador.

"Oh, it's you," he muttered under his breath, not caring if the Spaniard heard him or not.

"Buenos días, Sir England," he greeted. "I haven't seen you since that last court meeting two weeks ago."

"It's _Lord_ England, by the way." Elizabeth bestowed the title to him shortly after their wedding day two years ago, yet some nobles apparently refused to learn the change. "But yes, I know. When is your ship sailing for Spain again? Surely you have more than enough information to take back to your king, don't you think?"

"I do not possess the one detail that will satisfy my king; alas I cannot leave until I obtain it." He stared pointedly at him. "Who is to be your queen's successor?"

Arthur shook his head and rolled his eyes as he sidestepped the shorter man. "You don't need to be concerned about that. It is strictly an English affair not a Spanish one," he answered while briskly walking away.

"I am fully dedicated to my country," de Feria claimed, trailing behind him, "thus I intend to bring good news to King Philip and Lord Spain. I didn't come all this way and spend all this time just to twiddle my thumbs. Perhaps there is a possibility that we can all receive what we desire the most."

"That is virtually impossible. Her Majesty wishes for peace and coexistence between religions and countries; she's been putting all her time and effort into this vision. She is even willing to negotiate with your king as long as marriage alignments are not involved."

De Feria huffed annoyingly. "She's rejected Austria, Sweden, and Spain.[5] When she declared to remain a 'Virgin Queen', I couldn't believe my ears. She won't get very far without a husband, a _king_ by her side. Even your own parliament is exasperated with her stubborn behavior; she's completely mad."

Arthur snapped his head toward the count. "Remember where you are, foreigner. I could have you thrown onto the next departing ship with Spain _possibly_ being its destination."

De Feria narrowed his eyes but spoke calmly: "Time is fleeing, Sir England, and a successor should be announced before she loses the battle against smallpox."

" _If_ she—"

"There is no _if_ at this point."

Arthur suddenly stopped where he was (as did de Feria) and faced the man fully. He glowered like a predator going in for the kill with teeth bared and flashing eyes. "Listen closely, you—" he growled, but was cut off by a male servant lightly jogging down the hall.

"Ah, Lord England! I've been searching everywhere for you; there's a visitor asking for your presence in the library."

His vicious glare weakened somewhat as he switched his gaze to the unpredicted converser. It was a young lad (probably one of the new servants Elizabeth just brought in) and he looked at Arthur with a childlike expectancy, totally unaware of the arguing that just went on between him and the count.

"Who is it?" he muttered.

The hope left his eyes and was replaced by momentary nervousness. "Uh, I'm not certain, my Lord, but"—he glanced behind him and jutted a thumb in the same direction—"he's already waiting in the library. He said he wanted to speak with you first before addressing Her Majesty."

Arthur peered at de Feria for a second time as a way of saying _This isn't over yet_ before turning to the servant. "Well, lead on, then."

As the two men walked away, Arthur swore he heard the ruffling of paper behind him as if de Feria were pulling out his notes to add to.

Arthur's rage at the Spanish Ambassador faded a little as he marched away from him and followed the young man to the library, but he couldn't get those snarky remarks out of his head. _She won't get far without a king by her side? She's completely mad? She needs a successor as soon as possible?_ he brooded. _How dare he make such comments? For a man who only writes down what he sees, he's awfully opinionated and demanding._

A short sigh escaped him. _And she won't die. As long as she gets her rest and does as she's told, she'll live. It's like she said: God wouldn't give her everything and then take it away in such a short period of time…_

He repeated this over and over in his mind, trying to convince himself to stay positive (or at least strong) and to shoo away the overbearing presence of death like it was nothing more than a yipping dog.

They eventually came upon the wide wooden door that led to the library; the servant opened it up, announced Arthur's arrival, and stepped aside, allowing him to enter the room. When he took two steps forward and saw the figure of a man across the room holding a thick book, the visitor looked up at him and gave a crooked grin.

Arthur's shoulders drooped as realization settled in and he almost wished he could speak with de Feria again.

Before him stood Allister Kirkland, the personification of Scotland, and his brother.

He wore a deep blue léine shirt that was half-tucked into a wide leather belt (out of style or pure laziness Arthur wasn't sure) with a short jacket over it. A blue and green striped fabric was wrapped diagonally over his torso, hung from his shoulders like a cloak, and then ended right above his naked knees in the style of a skirt; this was all tucked into the same leather belt that hugged his loins. _Is this that absurd "belted plaid" he keeps writing about?_ Arthur pondered as he peered at his brother in confusion and distaste. _He looks utterly stupid. **[6]**_ His riding boots came up right below his knees and a small satchel dangled from his hip. His rouge red hair hung lowly in his eyes and the outline of a growing beard was present around his cheeks, jawline, and chin.

"It's been a while, little brother," Allister said through that sly smirk of his, a smile he displayed whenever he had a trick or two up his sleeve.

Arthur turned to the servant behind him. "You didn't inform me he was Scottish," he said lowly.

The boy bit his bottom lip in worry. "I'm terribly sorry, my Lord. It didn't occur to me that—"

He raised a hand to stop him and sighed. "It's fine. You may attend to your other duties now."

"Y-Yes, my Lord." He nodded his head quickly and then closed the library door, footsteps echoing away behind it.

Arthur turned to Allister. "What are you doing here?"

"God, I haven't seen your face in how many years and _that's_ the first thing you say?" He closed the book he was reading and then slid it back into its place on one of the many grand bookcases surrounding the room. "Frankly, I shouldn't be surprised, but I somehow am."

Arthur paused, studying his brother's facial features. Dark bags drooped from beneath his moss green eyes and other stress marks pulled at the corners of his lips and across his forehead; he looked a lot older since the last time he saw him. He appeared skinnier as well, but he couldn't be certain with all that cloth hanging from his person like an oversized blanket.

"That ridiculous outfit makes your legs as thin as a turkey's and your growing beard appears as though you simply rubbed dry shit over your face," he retorted, crossing his arms with a small smirk twitching at his lips as if he were holding back a laugh.

Allister's sneer broadened. "Changed greatly, haven't I? You, however, stayed the same—you still have the figure of an asparagus and the pleasant personality of a midge."

He chuckled at his own descriptions and then blinked in disbelief. "But those are new," he added as he tugged on his earlobes, indicating the small golden hoops dangling from Arthur's ears.[7]

His fingers brushed against the earrings self-consciously before stuffing his hand back into his elbow with a frown. "Yes, your point being?"

"You've always complained that they're senseless pieces of jewelry. Are they constructed out of cold iron? Are you finally sick of your own faeries because I know I am."[8] He fiddled with his own iron earring that hung from his left earlobe. "Wee vermin," he muttered to himself like he was recurring a particular encounter with a troublesome faery.

"Well, I've changed my mind; end of story," Arthur insisted. Under no circumstances was he going to tell him that he only got his ears pierced because Elizabeth practically _begged_ him (almost ordered him) to. He knew he'd lose that battle no matter what he did. She possessed a new habit of dressing him up like a doll—she'd have coats and hats imported from Italy for him and busied herself by styling his hair or sewing up linen shirts for him. He wasn't one to talk though; he also enjoyed twisting her hair into different looks, snapping on necklaces and bracelets for her, and pinning roses or pearls into her dresses.

"Now, did you solely come here just to be a pain in the ass or do you actually have something intelligent to say?" he asked impatiently, sauntering toward the active fireplace on the other side of the room.

Allister plopped down into a plush green armchair with his elbows resting upon his knees. "As much as I love pestering you, there is a reason for why I am here; I wouldn't waltz into your shitty country without a good, legitimate excuse."

Arthur shot an irritated look at him which he habitually ignored.

"I'm here on business, little brother," he explained. "I hear that your queen is mighty sick—"

"Oh, fuck you, Scotland!" Arthur barked, knowing exactly where this was heading. "I should've known _that_ was the reason why you came once your pathetic face came into my view."

Allister frowned, puzzled. "What are you going on about?"

"Just like everyone else, you're here for the name of a successor. That idiot of an ambassador is still suggesting a marriage alliance between my queen and Philip of Spain. It's like he's never been here before; just because she's ill doesn't mean she'll agree to anything now— _especially_ any sort of marriage proposal."

"Hm, well, that's a little desperate, but why are you offended, England? She has smallpox, does she not? Unless there's new information that haven't reached my ears within my travels"—he gave a flat stare as he stretched out the dreadful silence that Arthur provided as an answer—"then you'll be in quite the muddle when she dies without a proper heir to the throne. All that time, effort, and paperwork will be a great hassle, so I'm honestly surprised you're not prying names out of her either."

Arthur scowled at the low fire, listening to the flames pop quietly. He knew he had his doubts about Elizabeth's survival (particularly within the first few days of the appearing symptoms). He recalled following her around like how a duckling would with its mother, asking if she was sure she was okay or if there was anything she needed. He would chew on his fingernails until they started to bleed, thinking of all the fatal diseases she probably had (smallpox being one of them). His heartbeat would pick up speed whenever she coughed harshly into her fist and forced himself to prepare for any spittle of blood. But with how everyone spoke so surely of her predicted death, he came to realize how she must've felt all along.

Despite how the news of her diagnosis affected her, disappointment or anger must've flowed through her veins when all her court members, servants, and citizens were counting on her death. People that she loved, people that she trusted were so sure that her soul would be no more. Betrayal didn't come easily to Elizabeth, but fury always did. _No wonder she's so vindictive,_ he thought to himself. _It took all she got to get where she is now and people are already arranging her funeral. How immensely cruel._

"She'll recover," he mumbled into the fire. "Nothing that a good night's rest won't cure."

He could feel Allister's stare on him harden. The quietness that replaced their argument seemed to say a lot more than when they were speaking. Arthur grew a bit nervous yet made sure his face remained impassive. Allister was his older brother and therefore knew a lot about him; he was good at reading his expressions and body language and Arthur didn't usually surprise him. _I'd have to be careful about what I say and what I do around him. He probably believes that I would never marry a mortal and know that is beyond me, but still…it's better to be safe than sorry._

He heard him heave a sigh and get up from his chair. "Fine, think what you may," he muttered as he strolled over to his side, the heel of his boots ringing throughout the library. He stared into the fire for a moment before speaking up again: "I realize your 'Virgin Queen' is very determined to keep that reputation, so I'm obviously not going to propose any marriage alliances—I'll let Spain try his best. However…" A short pause ensued. "…I will put out a name for a successor for her to consider."

Arthur peeked at him. Something heavy was obviously weighing on his mind; it showed in his tired features and in his dark eyes. He figured it was the constant battle of religion in his country that was taking its toll on him.[9] He heard he turned Protestant recently, but of course that didn't stop any Catholics from throwing a bunch of fits.

"Reflect about putting Mary on the throne," Allister finally said, turning to meet Arthur's peering eyes.

He frowned slightly. "Mary? Your queen?"

"Aye. The possibility at least deserves your attention and thought. Elizabeth doesn't want to marry, correct? Well, Mary and Elizabeth are related by blood—they're cousins. The people much prefer it if a relative were to take over the throne rather than a foreigner. I know you're oddly sure of Elizabeth surviving this case of smallpox, but you must realize that there's a good chance that she won't and you'll need a new monarch and quick."

"But isn't she a Catholic? And are you not Protestant? Is that why you look like shit?"

Allister scratched his scruffy beard, looking away. "It's complicated. My queen would like to keep a balance between the two, but she's mighty concerned with my alliance with France. He's Catholic and if Mary were to convert, the alliance will most likely crumble. We've been allies for a long time—hate to break it now, you know? But remember the Treaty of Perpetual Peace?[10] Mary has a right to your throne, much stronger than Elizabeth's, frankly."

"Seriously? You want to bring up that useless piece of paper? And who are you to say that Elizabeth can't have the throne? Hasn't Mary been spending all this time in France? Does she really even know what's going on in your kingdom?"

"At least she was born into a proper royal family, you stupid cunt. Elizabeth is the illegitimate child of that Anne Boylan witch and shouldn't be ruling this kingdom in the first place. You, as a country, are in a very unstable position and it's only a matter of time before something fucks up and you will go tumbling down, so I say watch your mouth, you little shit."

The two brothers locked their penetrating glares on one another, waiting for the other to react in some way. Arthur eventually growled out, "My concern for my sickly queen is just as peculiar as your concern for putting your Scottish queen on my throne. She's not even here; if she wants it so much, why isn't she here with you?" He raised a suspicious eyebrow. "Are you acting on your own accord?"

Personified nations were supposed to stay by their ruler's side and do as they were told, so one acting by himself was at least extremely odd; one could even say it was unlawful. He couldn't remember the last time his brother went against his leader's orders or took matters into his own hands. He didn't know what to make of it; it wasn't like him to do something like that.

The stare-down went on for some time, Arthur trying to read Allister and Allister trying to figure out Arthur. But they were both Kirklands, a part of the British Isles: their individual secrets would always stay with them and would never crack unless they intended them to. They were both hiding something—something significant—and they both knew that the other would never break, so the only thing left to do was to let suspicions grow and accuse blindly until one of them accused correctly.

Allister glanced at the fire again, his thick red fringe falling in front of his eyes. "Mary Stuart is the rightful ruler of Scotland and England. Keep that in mind when the rest of Europe comes after you."

He exited the library and left the door wide open on his way out. Arthur wasn't sure if he departed for his country right then or went a few days afterwards. What he did know is that he didn't see him for the rest of the day and probably wouldn't see him again for a while.

* * *

[1] Smallpox, though destroyed worldwide today, had been considered one of the deadliest diseases one could catch for thousands of years. Symptoms were flu-like but also included getting a rash that would start on the face and then move to other parts of the body. The scars the pox left behind often disfigured the patient horribly (sometimes to the point of being unrecognizable) and usually it led to fatal results. Treatment didn't help either: patients were told to open windows, to not pull the bed covers higher than to their waist, and drink large quantities of beer.

[2] Not much is recorded during Elizabeth's smallpox attack besides how everyone thought she was gonna die and begging her to reveal a successor for when she did die (she wouldn't give one until her deathbed over 40 years later). She would survive this but the aftermath would be stuck with her forever: small scars were left behind from the pox (though very little) and she lost a fair amount of her hair, requiring her to wear wigs for the rest of her life. This is why she was so concerned with her appearance—she had to look the part of the Queen of England and that was hard to do when majority of your hair is gone at age 29.

[3] Elizabeth was very stubborn when it came to medical issues or pains of any sort. She hated admitting whenever she felt "weak" and didn't like people taking care of her. She would rebel in any way she could to prove to people that she wasn't sick like standing in place for hours on end, showing them that she still had enough strength and energy to go on. In fact, she was so stubborn that in one incident when she had a massive toothache and doctors told her it would be best to remove the tooth to stop the pain, she repeatedly refused to do it—she'd rather deal with the pain—until one guy offered to have one of his teeth surgically removed just to show her that the process didn't hurt. Extremely loyal to the queen or incredibly fed-up with her? I don't know but it worked.

[4] The Black Death (or Bubonic Plague) arrived in Italy around 1347 via merchant ships from Central Asia that landed around the Black Sea. The oriental black fleas living on rats that boarded the ships were the cause of the plague and it only took about a year or two for the disease to spread to the rest of Europe. The number of deaths is estimated to being around 75 to 200 _million_ people which is roughly about two thirds of Europe's population during that time. Victims literally looked like zombies within two or three days of catching the disease and would most likely be dead by the end of the week. The plague wouldn't officially be exterminated from our world until the 19th century.

[5] Elizabeth rejected marriage proposals from Charles II, Archduke of Austria (his dad, Ferdinand I of the Holy Roman Empire, expected Elizabeth to say yes and when she said no, the dude automatically hated her and began thinking of her as illegitimate to the English throne), Eric XIV of Sweden (he kept on sending her long love letters—she found this "very entertaining"—and even offered to visit her in England when she wouldn't respond to his letters—which caused her to freak out and basically wrote back saying "Terribly sorry but I reject any marriage proposals from you and _please_ don't come to England, thank you") and, this story's probable antagonist, King Philip II of Spain all within four years of each other.

[6] Scottish fashion was kinda vague during the 16th century as the country wasn't worth much attention thus not a lot of detailed records surrounds it, but the belted plaid (or the Great Kilt) was starting to become a thing in the late 1500s. The Highlands kept close to their Gaelic clothing style while the Lowlands kept up with French or English fashion (and English fashion meant keeping up with French, Spanish, or Italian looks—they weren't great at the artsy department).

[7] That's right; in the Elizabethan era, it was quite popular for men to have their ears pierced (even William Shakespeare had his done). Can you dudes bring back this trend?

[8] Like how holy objects ward off vampires, iron can ward off ghosts, faeries, witches, and other supernatural creatures according to most folklore. The iron part of it later brought on superstitions that are still believed today like hanging an iron horseshoe on a door to shoo off evil spirits or to bring good luck to those who enter.

[9] Scotland was affected by the Religious Reformation in Europe just like everyone else. To be Catholic or to be Protestant was a constant struggle for the country but in 1560 the Scottish Parliament met and severed all links with the Pope and was declared a Protestant state. When Mary, Queen of Scots moved to the country in 1561, she was forced accept the Protestant ways but stayed by her Catholic faith which was one of the reasons why many of her citizens didn't like her. This would be the beginning of her own demise.

[10] This treaty was signed between Henry VII of England and James IV of Scotland back in 1502. It was meant to bring Scotland and England's on-and-off warfare to an end and to bring the countries together by a marriage alliance between James and Margaret, Henry VIII's older sister. However, the treaty broke in 1513 when James invaded England to support the French who, of course, had been attacked by the English. In James's eyes, a treaty between Scotland and France that was signed back in the 13th century was more important than the one with England that was signed ten years ago. The treaty at this point in time was mostly forgotten, but was a strong piece of evidence that Mary, Queen of Scots had the rightful place on the English throne.


	16. Royal Blood

****So Scotland is harder to write than England which is why this chapter took 5-ever to post (I also went to Disney World in Florida for a week but that's just another excuse, isn't it?). There's too many teddy-bears-disguised-as-assholes characters in this fic!**

 **Nevertheless, I persisted. Please enjoy!****

 _19 May 1568_

"Now, gentlemen, you all know why we are here, so there's no time for unserviceable debates today," Elizabeth announced, her voice reverberating around the large room where her Privy Council was gathered, each man entirely focused on the queen in front of him.

Nearly all sat on the edge of their seats; different passions were displayed across their faces, ranging from heated antagonism to increasing uneasiness. Papers were neatly arranged and quills were prepared, dipped in ink and grasped firmly in between fingers. Not a word slipped through their lips—they waited in high expectancy for Her Majesty to speak the words they all were thinking.

Elizabeth peered around the room with an air of authority and then declared, "We must decide what to do about Mary Stuart, Queen of Scotland."

All at once, court members began shouting out their personal solutions, hoping theirs could be heard above everyone else's. Some waved their quills in the air as a way of grabbing the Queen's attention while some threw angry looks at other members, clearly discordant about whatever they were saying. The noise they made was unprofessional and chaotic.

Elizabeth sighed disapprovingly as she rested her chin in the palm of her hand. She slowly blinked at Arthur who sat at a table with William Cecil not too far away. Even though she wore that serious, grave mask of hers while in court, Arthur could plainly see the aggravated spark in her eyes. _We're never leaving this room today, are we?_ the spark seemed to grumble.

Also expressing a stern appearance, he blinked back as a way of saying, _Most likely, thus something productive must come out all of this._

At that, he pursed his lips and addressed to the rest of the room's occupants in a loud yet monotoned voice: "Her Majesty said no unserviceable debates today. Speaking all at once _is_ exactly that; behave like the royal council you are."

The frantic shouts faded to bitter whispers and then to the mere ruffling of papers. Arthur glanced back in time to see Elizabeth cover her mouth with her fingers, attempting to conceal a grin that was on the verge of becoming a giggle. She swiftly recovered, however, returning to her "court mask" almost instantly (Arthur bit the inside of his cheek to suppress his own chuckle).

The Queen lightly tugged at the large ruff hugging her neck and continued: "On the sixteenth of May, We received a letter from Mary Stuart of Scotland that was dated the sixteenth of May and written in Workington, Cumberland. In it contained the results of the Battle of Langside—Mary's army was defeated and apparently fled the battlefield after losing over a hundred men.[1] Her supporters—one of them being Lord Allister Kirkland, the personification of Scotland—helped her cross the border by sailing across the River Derwent and into Cumberland. Mary wishes for guidance and protection against her country's Protestants." She paused, looking around the room. "What should be done about this?"

"Scotland's queen isn't to be trusted!" replied Nicholas Bacon, immediately taking the opportunity to let his opinion be known. "Your Majesty has offered her plenty of assistance and advice in the past and she denied every single one of them. Asking for more is unnecessary and foolish of her."

The Privy Council mumbled in agreement.

Elizabeth nodded along, writing down some personal notes. "Yes, she's getting unpredictable which could lead to many destructible outcomes. We cannot just ignore her, though; something must be done."

"She's already proven herself dangerous not only for Scotland but for England as well," Walter Mildmay pointed out. "Why can't we just execute her?"

"Because that could lead to Scotland's Catholics coming after the Queen," Francis Knollys snapped. "The Scots are a fiery bunch and won't back down after one battle—this could turn into a war if we're not careful."[2]

"A war?" Mildmay scoffed. "You honestly believe such a reckless thing would happen?"

"Who knows? England's own Catholics are just as rebellious and one rough push could send them all after us! Remember that Scotland and France still have an alliance; if we kill Mary, then _two_ countries would invade us!"

"Scotland's ties with France are as good as dead after this little tantrum of hers," Bacon intervened. "We won't have to worry about a thing like that."

"Should we try to form an alliance with Scotland?"

"Never again! That went quickly downhill the last time we tried that!"

Arthur listened to the dispute silently and watched the other council members scribble notes down, nodding or shaking their head. _Everyone's on edge today_ , he observed. _Usually they can at least speak quietly and acknowledge each other's suggestions, but not even that can be done. I didn't think they'd be so worried…_

"We're not going to execute her."

Everyone looked at the Queen. Her ruby red lips were set into a tight frown and she was speedily tapping her fingernail against her desk, obviously growing impatient with her Privy Council.

"Your Majesty," Bacon carefully countered (these men were used to working with their temperamental ruler, so it wasn't shocking for Bacon to talk back to her), "it is just as you said—Mary has become unpredictable and we can't risk any—"

"She is my cousin!" Elizabeth fired back. "My own flesh and blood! Not only are you asking me to promote murder, but to throw it upon my last surviving family member in the form of an axe." She scowled. "I won't allow it."

Bacon huffed in annoyance just as Knollys raised another proposal: "Perhaps we should send her back to Scotland? She has plenty to fix there."

"That could create more problems," Mildmay insisted. "If Mary's pleading for our assistance and we respond by shipping her back to her homeland, she'd very likely transport her Catholic army to England as some act of revenge." He leaned back in his chair and muttered under his breath, "The Scottish Queen is too emotional—she's on the brink of madness, I dare say."

The men mumbled to one another, titter-tottering over the idea. Arthur noticed Elizabeth looking at him from the corner of his eye, so he turned to her.

"Lord England," she stated in a strong and auditory voice, making everyone else drop their separate conversations and aim their gaze toward the said noble.

He blinked. "Yes, Your Majesty?"

"How do you believe Lord Scotland would react if we were to go through with any of the ideas suggested? Can you predict his behavior through the letters he sends you?"

Arthur glanced down at the familiar letters in front of him, studying the small and messy handwriting that belonged to his elder brother. He had a total of nine letters with him—it was all Allister had sent him since he last saw him back in 1562, over six years ago. It was a dramatic change from the usual three he received _a year._ Typically Allister would write about a variety of things from how his parliament or economy was doing to random memories the two of them shared (when Arthur was young, Allister told him it was important to understand what was happening in other countries, thus he began writing him letters to which Arthur nearly always wrote back).

But in these recent letters—the last one was dated 17 September 1567—Allister only wrote about business, strictly Mary Stuart's right to the English throne. The tone was short and curt like a dagger, not at all like his customary laidback slang. Arthur's mind flew back in time to when his brother fled from Hampton Court's library in 1562. That stunt he pulled was one of the strangest things he'd ever seen him do. Allister would _never_ back down from a fight, physical or verbal. He wasn't reckless, however, and knew how to combat well, so when he ran away as soon as their argument heated up, Arthur had to stop and really think if that was his brother or not.

 _I honestly can't foresee his next move,_ he pondered to himself as he flipped through his papers, trying to make sense of it all. _Perhaps these men do possess the right to be nervous. What are we to do?_

"Scotland is just as impulsive as Mary is now, I'm afraid," he eventually answered. "He's grown distant and seemingly vengeful lately which is not in his normal nature. He firmly believes that the Queen of Scots should take over the English throne; there's a fair chance that a coup will rise in the country if they're both left to roam freely." He rubbed his forehead, stress and sudden realization weighing down on his mind. "Something terrible may happen if we do not react quickly."

This response obviously didn't calm the court members down one bit for their anxious mumbling started up once again. Elizabeth didn't flinch in the slightest; her gaze lowered to Arthur's small pile of papers in thought. He could see the wheels turning in her brain, picking apart each plan for different outcomes like how one plucks out the seeds of a watermelon. She was quiet for a moment before refocusing her stare on the man beside him, Sir William Cecil.

"Cecil," she addressed, "you've hardly said a word during this entire exchange. Do speak your mind—your advice is crucial."

Elizabeth's favorite council member looked up. He appeared just as distressed as the rest of them with his droopy eyes and frowning lips, but he spoke with such certainty and calmness that one couldn't help but to place their faith in him despite how tired he looked.

"We cannot put any trust into her," he claimed. "Your Majesty has been more than generous to her with offering guidance on her queenly duties including religion and Scotland's politics and even with choosing a suitable husband for her. Instead of accepting the plentiful assistance, the Queen of Scots deliberately ignores it and marries another man before killing him while driving her country toward a potential civil war. She has been given several chances to prove herself worthy, all of which she failed miserably…"[3]

Something inside Arthur snapped at those words: _prove herself worthy._ That phrase stuck with him for the longest time while Elizabeth was growing up and ended up being his motivation for protecting and supporting her. He remembered hating how everyone treated her like some unwanted guest at a social gathering, sticking their noses up at a defenseless little girl, disregarding her because she came from the "wrong" womb.

He recalled some of Allister's letters from twenty years ago, the curled paper and thin black ink clear in his mind: _Little brother, the marriage treaty between France and I's future rulers is settled and Mary has already departed for Brittany—she'll most likely be there once this letter reaches you. I haven't spent much time with my tiny queen, but she threw quite the fit when the hour arrived for the ship to sail. Weeping as she clung to my cloak, she begged not to go, even when I promised her safety and happiness in France. Mortal children are strange things—how quick they are to put their unbreakable faith and trust into you._

What was Mary to Allister? Did he feel sympathy for her? Was she still a defenseless little girl in his eyes that he felt personally responsible for her well-being and occupation? Whatever the reason, Arthur began to sense his own apprehension rising within his throat.

"But if Your Majesty is persistent to let the Queen of Scots keep her life," Cecil went on, "then I suggest she'd stay in royal English hands in order to prevent the coup Lord England mentioned. We shouldn't send her back to Scotland for the Catholics would surely go to her aid and set a revengeful attack on England. It would also be unwise to place her here in London where she could gain easy access to Your Majesty's throne; all it will take is one turn of the head for her to escape and steal the crown. The best setting for the Queen would be in between the two—somewhere in North Yorkshire or Lincolnshire—so as to minimize the chances of any sort of Scottish outbreak from occurring."

He frowned slightly. "That is what I believe ought to happen."

The room stayed silent for another moment, each court member shifting the idea over in their mind like the turning of the tide. Arthur chewed on the inside of his cheek. _Make her a prisoner?_ he thought. _That could work. If we went through with this, then Mary will be locked away from English businesses and Scottish support. Hopefully Allister will realize that imprisonment isn't as torturous or humiliating as the other concepts that were discussed here; should I inform them of the personal connection he shares with her? No, I can't. That would require an explanation as to how I know that and that knowledge involves Elizabeth…_

Without moving his head, Arthur peeked at his Queen who was observing the men's thoughtful expressions, trying to read their judgements. She sensed his stare and turned to him. Elizabeth once told him that he was very easy to read, very expressive. It wasn't a trait that he was particularly proud to have (in fact, it frustrated him), but it turned out to be useful in situations like these where he knew something that he couldn't say aloud. The council members either ignored him or didn't bother to take the time to find out what he was thinking, but just one look from Elizabeth and she would somehow understand his mute exclamation.

That was what she was doing now: studying the look in his eyes and understanding what it was he had to say without him having to even part his lips. She stayed perfectly emotionless, nevertheless, ( _how does she do that?_ ) and straightened a little once she received his message. She paused for another moment before she spoke to her men once more:

"It is decided then. We shall follow Cecil's advice and take Mary Stuart as an English prisoner. She should be placed in Carlisle Castle in Cumbria for the time being until we can find another prison for her, away from the Scottish border. It is vital that a group of guards should be sent out to collect her as soon as possible which is why I am to appoint Lord England and Sir Francis Knollys as leaders of this expedition. Lord England shall gather the guards to travel with them and Knollys will stay in Carlisle Castle as Mary's jailor while sending letters of her behavior and intentions to London."

Arthur could hear the disbelief in Knollys's quiet voice say, "I beg your—what?"

Elizabeth pretended to not hear him and concluded, "It has been said and it will be done. You all are dismissed."

The meeting came to an official end once Elizabeth knocked her gable against her desk.

A few hours later, when Arthur found the time to speak with Elizabeth alone, he clarified what he figured out earlier in court. She stood motionless and said nothing for some time after he'd finished speaking. The silence she carried was so long that he wondered if something was wrong or she even heard him at all, but she finally spoke just as he opened his mouth to ask her of her well-being.

"Whether Lord Scotland's sentiments toward Mary are romantic or not, we must handle the situation with care. A lovestruck fool is a dangerous enemy who'll wreak havoc if anything should happen to their beloved. Besides, she is my cousin and I too worry for her sake."

"What should be done about Scotland?"

She accusingly raised an eyebrow at him. "Be nice to him, Arthur. I'm aware that this is a hefty request I'm demanding of you, but I do not want a scuffle between you two countries. Everything must be accomplished peacefully and the only way to do that is to give Lord Scotland the reassurance that Mary will be kept both alive and safe."

He frowned and rolled his eyes. "You portray me like some theatrical villain, but it will be done. You do realize I don't sit at my desk and rub my hands together while laughing manically whenever something bad happens to Scotland, right?"

Elizabeth chuckled. "Not all the time anyway." She stepped closer and then pressed a tender kiss to his lips. "Please be careful, my darling."

He returned the kiss with a small smile. "I always am."

Arthur, Knollys, and several others of the Queen's men left London early the next morning, heading for Workington at a rapid pace.

The roads were in decent shape—only a few muddy puddles and some uneven pathways was considered a rare and lucky journey in Arthur's book—and because of that they were able to reach their destination earlier than expected. This was great for a number of reasons: Mary didn't have enough time to run someplace else, the English could quickly move on to other plans that dealt with Mary's fate, and Arthur could go back home to Elizabeth (not to mention get away from Knollys's sour attitude about being appointed as Mary's jailor). The Englishmen arrived within a few days time.

They spotted the Scots at the edge of the River Derwent, standing straight and tall while facing them as if they were expecting them to appear at that moment. Arthur didn't see Allister lingering amongst the tiny crowd. Instead, he saw the dirty and distraught faces of royal Scottish Catholics, men and women alike—days old dirt and soot caked their clothes and their eyes drooped from lack of sleep. They stared back at him in nervous anticipation.

Arthur's horse slowed to a stop as did Knollys's beside him; the dozen guards behind them did the same. Knollys looked toward the women of the group. "Which one of you is Mary Stuart, Queen of Scotland?" he demanded.

The last portrait Arthur saw of Mary was when she was a child living in France, so obviously now she would be different in appearance (he didn't trust portraits in the first place, not since the stressful yet hilarious encounter of his late King Henry and his fourth wife, Anne of Cleves).[4] When an incredibly tall woman with a long nose and thin wavy hair stepped forward, he could see that little oblivious girl still trapped in those round facial features.[5]

He frowned at her, thinking of Allister.

The woman gave them a nod. "Mary Stuart is my name, but I'm afraid my title of the Queen of Scotland is still being determined."

Knollys and Arthur exchanged looks with one another before Knollys dismounted his horse and Arthur signaled for the English soldiers to surround the Scots; they obeyed slowly as he pulled a rolled-up statement out of his inner coat pocket. He unraveled it and then began to read aloud from Elizabeth's neat handwriting.

"After receiving a letter describing the failure of the Battle of Langside and the news of escapement to English grounds, it is demanded that Mary Stuart, Queen of Scotland, will be confined to Carlisle Castle in Cumbria under the orders of Her Majesty, Elizabeth Tudor, Queen of England. The length of Stuart's imprisonment is currently undecided, but—"

"Confined?" Mary said with a look of confusion.

Arthur threw a quick impassive glance at her. "Yes, confined." He went to continue, but was interrupted again by a member of Mary's entourage.

"The Queen asked for assistance, not for a punishment!" A man with a bushy beard glared at him.

Arthur glared back. "Her Majesty is offering assistance by saving your queen's life and keeping her on English grounds. A punishment would be sending you all back to Scotland just to have you killed or having an English executioner do it to save your citizens the trouble. I'd ask which one you'd prefer, but I think I already know the answer to that one."

A woman with stringy blonde hair gasped. "You were planning on execute her?"

"We couldn't take any chances," Knollys answered for Arthur. "But we can assure you that Mary Stuart will stay alive and safe as long as she cooperates with us. Now if you please, we'll lead you to Carlisle Castle."

He gestured to the horse he just descended, but Mary merely stared at him, confused. She looked up at Arthur. "My dear cousin ordered this? She truly wishes to imprison me?"

He exhaled through his nostrils and then opened his mouth to utter out some halfhearted excuse, but was cut off by the sound of approaching steeds on his left. Everyone turned to see three men on tall yet weak almond brown horses—they were slow and too skinny to be used as anything useful. Arthur didn't recognize the two men with curly beards and broad swords in their hands, but he did know the other one even if he appeared completely different since the last time he saw him.

Allister looked awful—there was no other way to describe him. His full beard and floppy hair were frizzy either from the humidity or lack of a comb. His cheeks caved in and his eye sockets drooped a bit. Despite the heavy cloak he wore, Arthur could tell just how skeletal his body was; his brother usually had broad shoulders and big hands, but now he couldn't even see where his shoulders began and he noticed how tightly he was gripping his horse's reins, his fingers shaky, his knuckles bulging.

 _This last battle wasn't just a singular attack with some casualties,_ Arthur thought, frowning in concern. _It's the beginning of something much larger and far deadlier than imagined—as if Allister's appearance isn't proof enough._

Allister lifted his head and gave him a small smirk. "Little brother," he grunted out. "I'd say it's a pleasure to see you again, but then I'd be lying and that wouldn't be very gentlemanly of me, now would it?"

Arthur noticed Queen Mary's eyes widen some in shock. _So she knows who I am—by that reaction, I assume the stories Allister told her of me are nothing but rubbish._

"Scotland," he said aloud. "I am here under the orders of Her Majesty, Queen Eliza—"

"I heard ya the first bloody time."

The three horses came to a stop quite a distance from Arthur and his men. Allister went to get off his steed, but was clearly having trouble doing so—his arms shook underneath his own weight and it seemed like he was recovering from a wound or trying to conceal an ache in his lower abdomen as he gripped the spot with visible discomfort on his face. Some of the surrounding Scottish men hurried over to assist him, but Mary Stuart was quicker. She firmly gripped one of his hands as he slowly slipped from the saddle and then wrapped her arm across his lower back to keep him as steady as possible. (It might've been his poor posture, but it appeared as though she were as tall as or even taller than Allister, all of which surprised Arthur.)

Underneath the harsh glare of Allister and the desperate stare of Mary, Arthur found his prediction to be true—it was going to take a lot more effort than necessary to take the Scottish Queen to Carlisle Castle.

"Are you planning to shackle up my queen as well?" Allister growled at him. "Stuff her into a small, dark cell where she'll feast amongst the rats?"

"No, she is still considered royalty and will be given the best form of treatment that a prisoner will receive. The cell will be spacious and have plenty of light and—"

"How long are you going to keep her locked up in your land? She is the queen of my people and the rightful heir to yours as well. She must be free and rule at liberty and not be treated like the horse shit everyone is believing her to be!"

Arthur's frown deepened. "I don't have time for this, Scotland. I will take Mary by force if she refuses to go quietly and obligingly—"

Allister didn't interrupt him this time, but the rest of Mary's entourage did in a loud and fiery manner. They shouted incoherent protests and moved forward to protect their queen, looks of retaliation on their weary faces. Arthur quickly flew his right arm out, signaling for the guards to restrain the angry mob. They followed the orders by unleashing longswords from their belts and pointing them at the Scots. As they began to form into a tight circle, curses and demands flying through the air like cannonballs, Arthur leapt from his horse and told Knollys to calm down the crowd before marching over to Mary and Allister.

He heard Knollys's frustrated voice above the other shouts as he halted in front of his brother and his failing queen.

Allister's locked jaw and narrowed eyes never relaxed. "You little—"

"Shut your mouth and listen to me," Arthur snapped. "You think I'm being merciless and cruel, but you are as oblivious and inconsiderate as ever. Queen Elizabeth, _the only and true ruler of England_ , has faced situations very similar to Mary's—being disgraced by her own people, being imprisoned by her own family—thus she is sympathetic and offering safety. Mary deserves worse, but, of course, she's receiving the best that she can get."

 _Be nice, Arthur,_ came Elizabeth's voice from somewhere in the back of his mind.

"If she was sympathetic—"

"She is! Majority of people want Mary dead, including your own citizens, but instead Her Majesty has refused to accept that solution. There are other options that are far more lethal than staying within English territory. But if you wish to cause a big mess of things, then go ahead and make it rain destruction for all I care. The blood will be on your hands and not mine."

Allister, for once during this entire meeting, paused. His fatigued eyes searched for something within Arthur's, but for what exactly? Realization? Promises? A secret, perhaps?

He sneered. "I can't remember the last time you fought for peace. You're always the first one to plunge into the filthy waters of war. Something has happened to you, little brother, and it caused your burning spirit to go soft."

Arthur shook his head. "I'm just following orders; perhaps you should do the same and let your queen speak for herself." He looked at her. "You've barely said a word throughout this whole exchange—now's your last chance to make a queenly decision instead of standing aside and doing nothing."

Mary simply stared at him, turning his words inside out, looking for any hidden meaning or intention. He thought she was about to part her lips when Allister muttered out, "Did the red-headed bitch order you to say that as well?"

Without another thought, Arthur moved and slammed his fist into Allister's already beaten-up face. Mary gave a short scream as Allister's head sharply turned to the left. But, just as Arthur expected from his brother, he acted as though the punch were nothing but a gentle splash of water and then lunged forward, knocking them both to the ground.

Allister only got in a good hit or two before Mary came running over to pull him off of Arthur. With her tugging back on his arms and feeling how weak and frail Allister really was, Arthur easily dodged most of his brother's fists. He could've simply pushed him to the side or snapped one of his feeble fingers, but instead he stayed where he was and continued slapping away his bony knuckles or pushing against his face.

 _Be nice, Arthur. A lovestruck fool is a dangerous enemy._

He gritted his teeth. _I realize that._

The crowd behind them shouted even louder now at the sight before them and a few tried to push away the sharp swords surrounding them. Mary was yelling too, but he didn't hear most of it for he was too busy avoiding the irrational punches coming his way. He went to catch a fist, but his fingernails ended up slicing through a long scab on the back of Allister's hand which caused his blood to spill out all over again, a few drops landing along Arthur's nose and cheekbones.

Mary's cries became more frantic the longer they fought, and Allister only stopped when she shrieked out, "Stop it, Allister! I'll go with them, I'll allow myself to be imprisoned, so please stop it now!"

His fists loosened into claw-like shapes and Arthur could see the horrified look in his eyes. Normally, Arthur would say something to egg on the fight (due to old habits of fighting with his brother or that "burning spirit" Allister said he had he didn't know), but he kept his mouth firmly shut instead, waiting for his next reaction.

Allister shifted around to peer up at his queen, at the frightened child he was supposed to protect. "What?"

She said nothing. Her face was twisted into something of guilt, tears threatening to fall from the corners of her eyes.

"But…you don't know what they'll do to you, what they really have planned. And you're still a queen—you mustn't be subjected to the life of a prisoner."

"I trust Elizabeth; she is my cousin after all. But I can't do this to you. If I resist, then who knows what will happen? My people will suffer the consequences and I've already brought enough shame to them. I must go."

She struggled to lift him from Arthur's chest and when he did, he discovered the front of his uniform to be coated in dark blood. He looked up to see the large wound Allister was shielding earlier—it looked like he had gotten stabbed multiple times around his abdomen. Arthur wasn't sure if he received the injury not too long ago or he was in the process of healing when it ripped open again once he jumped onto him.

Mary peered at Allister's falling face, either completely ignoring his bleeding stomach or wasn't even aware of his medical condition.

He stared back at her, desperate. "But—"

"No, Scotland. There's no other way."

"Then…I'll go with you."

"No, that can't happen either. I need you to heal. Have one of our men patch you up and then go back home. My people need you more than I do. Take the rest back with you as well and try to ease the fighting between the Catholics and Protestants." She took a deep yet shaky breath. "That is…an order."

It appeared as though those last words was the first time she ever uttered them. Every Scot was frozen, including Allister, and gazed at her with a shocked sort of uncertainty like they weren't sure if they heard her correctly. Arthur slowly sat up and looked around him, puzzled by their expressions. _Is this seriously the first time she gave an order or something? I hear that phase pass through Elizabeth's lips at least a dozen times a day._

Allister had a look of utter defeat, a rare view to encounter. As he stood there, bleeding from many different places and watching his queen like how a dog would watch its master leave home, Mary turned toward Arthur and asked, "Elizabeth hasn't decided on a release date, hasn't she? How far is Carlisle Castle?"

Arthur compared the broken stare of Allister to the unmindful eyes of Mary. _Shit, Allister. Why do you continue to bleed for a girl who doesn't even see all the blood you're shedding?_

"No, there isn't a release date and Carlisle Castle is only a few miles from here, no longer than a day's trip," he answered.

Mary nodded and looked back at Allister. "I know my cousin means me no harm, so there shouldn't be any reasons to worry. Perhaps I could finally meet her face-to-face and we'll figure out something peaceful. All will be well, Scotland."

A long time passed by before Allister mumbled out, "Mary, you're—"

 _"Please_ don't make me say that again."

She tightened her hands into hard fists by her sides and her gaze lowered to the muddy ground between them. Everyone was silent as they watched the scene drag on before them. Arthur quietly stood up and rubbed at a drop of blood that was rolling down his cheek when Allister's sharp yet wavering stare locked onto him.

"No mistreatment or fatal threats will made toward her in any sort of way or else I'll crawl back here and behead you myself, you hear?" he hissed in a voice so low and so deadly that it even made Arthur jolt slightly at the intensity of it all.

He stood firm, however, and looked back at his elder brother with the same glare. "It is just as I've said all along."

They stared unblinkingly at each other like two feisty lions waiting for the other to make its move until Mary turned to Arthur again. "May I continue writing to Elizabeth? Or maybe even meet her in person?"

He hesitated. "I'll mention it to her."

"Good." Mary gave Allister a quick curtsey, said "Farewell for now, Scotland", and then walked over to Knollys and his waiting steed.

Allister stood as still as an old oak tree, his cloak flapping in the breeze, his fractured heart staring after the ignorant girl he tried to save so many times. No tears fell from his eyes nor any other physical sign of heartbreak escaped from him—he stayed there, motionless, watching Mary climb onto Knollys's horse and slowly be guided away from him once again. He didn't even try to cover up his stab wounds again; the physical pain wasn't a problem for him anymore.

Arthur gaped at his brother for another moment or two, completely perplexed by this foreign expression that seldom adorned his face. He supposed he could relate to it, though—Elizabeth was almost taken from him via sickness and knew the constant fear and anger that coursed through his veins during that dreadful time. But he couldn't feel sorry for him, he wouldn't. Mary, though careless of Allister's strong feelings toward her, was still a treacherous risk to Elizabeth and her crown and he wasn't going to easily forgive anyone for working with her, including his own family member. So even if Allister got on his knees and pleaded for him to let Mary go, Arthur knew he wouldn't budge, wouldn't even bat an eye at if he started to weep or wildly swing his sword at him in fury. Any peril toward Elizabeth was a personal attack to him.

Arthur turned away without another word and lead the Scottish Queen to her doomed fate at Carlisle Castle. 

* * *

[1] The Battle of Langside would mark the start of the Marian Civil War for Scotland. People were fighting for who was to rule the country: Mary, Queen of Scots or her 10-month-old son James VI (Mary's half-brother, James Stewart, would be regent for the newly-born king). Mary was forced to abdicate the throne for many reasons: her religion, being suspected of killing her husband Lord Darnley, and her short period of crappy ruling. The civil war would continue for five years before James Stewart eventually won the throne for his nephew.

[2] Nicholas Bacon, Walter Mildmay, and Francis Knollys were all real and important members of Elizabeth's Privy Council and not just names I made up. They all had their own personal achievements and their positions in court gradually went up as Elizabeth's reign continued (by the way, Elizabeth liked her Privy Council small because she thought having too many people meant more problems and more arguments—Mary I had over 50 members while Elizabeth only had 15).

[3] Mary's decision to remain Catholic while Scotland was a Protestant country was one of the reasons why many of her people disliked her (Scotland's Catholics also hated how she tolerated Protestantism so religion in general was a complete failure for her). Her Privy Council was a mess too—made up of 12 Protestants and 4 Catholics—because she failed to pick members who were sympathetic to Catholic and French interests (so as to somewhat satisfy Scotland's Catholics and to keep the ties with France strong which ended up falling later on); it was clear from the beginning that Mary was entirely focused on her right to the English throne. Mary married her first cousin Lord Darnley when a lot of people (including Elizabeth) advised her not to. The marriage was short and very unhappy as Darnley grew arrogant and jealous of a man, David Rizzio, that Mary often spent time with and actually ordered a successful assassination against him. Darnley was later killed by strangulation and everyone thought it was Mary, knowing how unhappy she was in the marriage (whether she actually did it or not is unknown though it's highly speculated it was her). A few months after the murder, Mary was forced to give up her throne.

[4] Henry VIII asked Hans Holbein to paint a portrait of his soon-to-be bride and sent him to Düren, Germany to do so. When he got there and found Anne to be "unattractive", he swallowed nervously and painted her in a way he knew Henry would like. You can image the huge disappointment Henry felt when he finally saw her in person and was only married to her for a few short months, mainly fed up by her appearance and un-ladylikeness. (Just so you know, Anne of Cleves was NOT ugly—Henry was just being his usual asshole-self.)

[5] Fun fact: Mary Stuart was 180 centimeters tall (or 5 feet 11 inches)! She was considered abnormally tall in her time considering that the average height for men was 173 centimeters or 5 feet 6 inches and that's still really tall for a woman in today's time.


	17. Tension Arises

****It's been two months since I posted a chapter—you guys must think I'm dead. Sadly I don't have an interesting excuse for you besides school being back in session (all math equations are out to get me and French grammar makes me wanna kill myself). I apologize for the long wait, but here's a long chapter to make up for it. :D**

 **Anyways wish me good luck in French class and I'll see ya in the next one!****

 _19 August 1585_

The sharp sound of Elizabeth's pen sliding across the parchment paper was as loud as thunder in the large and nearly empty throne room, echoing like a scream from the middle of a grassy field. Arthur stood beside the occupied throne and had the perfect view of the unrolled document presented to his queen, but he still leaned forward in anticipation, just like Cecil and Walsingham next to him. They all held their breaths until Elizabeth lifted her quill from the paper, ending both her signature and the noisy silence surrounding them.

She then handed the snow-white quill to Walsingham who also held the black bottle of ink, unintentionally forcing the men behind her to straighten up in unison. Once he plucked the pen from her hand, she looked up at the man before her with a gaze of power and empathy.

"I do hope that these soldiers I'm sending you will help ease the suffering of your Protestant people, Sir Netherlands," she said in Flemish.

Willem Morgens (or Sir Netherlands as he was beginning to be called) lightly shook the paper, trying to dry out the freshly applied ink.[1] He rolled it back up, tied a thin piece of twine around it, and then stuffed it into his inner coat pocket. He peered back at her and mumbled in a gruff voice, "I hope so too."

Arthur studied the crumbling state that Willem was in and wondered how he had the capability to even stand on his own. White bandages were wrapped tightly around his head, covering his large forehead and his right eye—he could see tiny dark red spots sprinkled along the rough fabric near his hairline, a telltale sign that he needed to replace the bandage soon. Scars and bruises decorated his pale skin in all sorts of shapes, sizes, and colors and if one got too close, the faint odor of iron and smoke could be smelt lingering about his person (even though he had a change of clothes and no burn marks or infected wounds were present on his body).

Despite how painful it looked like to be him at that moment, he still wore that seemingly permanent frown upon his chapped lips. Arthur had only seen Willem in person a few times (their histories haven't cross paths too often), but whenever he did, he always appeared pissed off. His behavior didn't match his face, thankfully, for he was a straight-forward, quiet, and hardworking lad. Arthur didn't have anything for or against him.

"Will you be staying with us another night?" Elizabeth inquired. "Do you require any medicines or traveling provisions for the journey back?"

Willem shifted his weight onto one foot with a bit of a limp. "I already have what I need. The sooner I get to my people, the better—they'll want to see the signed treaty as soon as possible."[2]

"I understand. I'll have my men assist yours in raising the siege of Antwerp on the date we arranged."

He nodded and then paused for a moment, pondering over something. "Are you sure you don't want the title of Governor General? It's frankly a little odd that you're rejecting it."

Elizabeth nodded her head once. "I'm quite sure, thank you."

"My people would want to know why."

Arthur, Walsingham, and Cecil all glanced at each other, surprised at Willem's subtle yet blunt demand. Their gazes aimed toward the Queen—though not directly—as they waited for her answer. She hesitated but eventually responded with the same authoritative stare that hardly ever slipped from her face: "I am honored by their proposal, but they must understand that I'm already fully dedicated to my home country, England of the British Isles. I don't mind providing assistance to other countries, but I cannot be responsible for them."

Arthur's observation flicked back to Willem. Nothing really shifted in his expression except for a quick blink of his small eyes; he couldn't tell what the man was thinking and it was starting to frustrate him.

 _Oh, just take the damn treaty and leave already! Why she doesn't wish to watch over your rebels like how a governess would to a child isn't your business anyhow. The deal is done, your mission is completed—you may depart now._

Willem stood motionless for another moment—clearly still pondering over Elizabeth's words—before bowing slightly, mumbling, "I see. Well, I must take my leave now and report this to my superiors. I again thank you for your support, Your Majesty."

She nodded. "Very well." Her bejeweled left hand lazily pushed through the air, gesturing toward the grand wooden doors ahead. "If you don't mind, Lord England, go on and show Sir Netherlands the way out. Oh, and do supply him with assistance if he may need it."

"Yes, Your Majesty," he replied quietly before doing as his queen said silently and quickly.

He caught the low, strongminded voice of Walsingham and the old, rational one of Cecil begin to speak up, but the sounds were cut off once he shut the throne room doors behind them.

The two countries walked on in awkward silence through the wide and ornate hallways of Nonsuch Palace. Only their rapid footsteps and the busy twittering of robins outside could be heard now. Willem kept up with Arthur's demanding pace easily—his long legs were to blame, Arthur believed, and it certainly didn't alter his attitude toward the traveler as the overwhelming awareness of Willem's monstrous height settled down in the back of his brain. He remained speechless, however, and tried to ignore Willem's presence by thinking over the diplomatic situation.

 _Spain's getting stronger each day; his empire is hastily spreading, conquering all he sees. Not only does he have nearly all of the continent in the palm of his hand, but he possesses several colonies in other lands. Resisting or fighting his forces has been proven mightily difficult, economically draining, extremely bloody, and overall impossible. The Netherlands should know that—he's not a complete idiot anyway—therefore, I highly doubt he's asking for my help just to shove Spain out of his land. No one does anything without some hidden cruel intention in mind. I assume his plan is to transfer the Spanish army to another country and—_

Arthur blinked in recognition. _And what better way than to send them here when Spain's king still holds many grudges against Elizabeth? He'll view the treaty as an invitation to come after my country and claim it as his; the Netherlands would be totally forgotten while I would become another one of Spain's puppets._

"Shit," he whispered under his breath. 

Willem glanced down at him. "Excuse me?"

Arthur shook his head and gave him a deathly stare, frowning deeply. "You're sending Spain straight at me. You're just trying to save your own skin and direct the trouble elsewhere."

Willem paused and then looked ahead of them again. "I'm trying to save my people is all."

"By telling that bastard to go and destroy mine," he growled. "Thank you for another completely useless treaty, you son of a bitch."

"You have quite the mouth on you, Lord England. I would keep your vulgar opinions to yourself if I were you."

"And if I were you, I would run for my horse before I slice off your limbs," he replied, placing a hand on the gold handle of the broadsword that dangled from his hip.

Willem didn't even peek at Arthur's gesture which only frustrated him even more. They were about to reach the one set of double doors to the palace when Arthur snorted and muttered out, "A betrayal already and you haven't even left the premises."

Both men stopped before the doors; Willem glimpsed at Arthur again, still expressionless. "Don't act so surprised at how these events have turned out. I'm just doing what is best for my people, just like you. All countries are selfish in that way."

"You're just too feeble to handle Spain by yourself and want to drag others into the messy rebellion for independence you've created," he replied curtly as he pulled open one of the heavy doors and then stepped aside for Willem to exit.

Instead, he stayed put and continued staring at him. Something in his facial features twitched and a very subtle yet deadly scowl came crashing down upon Arthur's person. Despite having a twisted ankle and old linen wrapped around half of his face, Arthur could still sense the anger seeping through Willem's aura. If wars could be won via glares alone, Willem and Antonio's positions would've easily switched, no questions asked.

"Don't tell yourself lies just because you don't like the truth," Willem said lowly as his torso slowly curved forward, practically hovering over Arthur now. "If defeating Spain was as easy as you think it is, then my people would already be free from his clutches and we wouldn't be having this conversation now. But, sadly, here we are. Don't take it all personally though—I'm not out to hurt you. I'm just doing what I have to. But if you actually possess the confidence to believe that you can overthrow Spain's empire, then perhaps this treaty wasn't a mistake. Just don't weep too loudly when he slices your limbs off."

Nothing but fixed stares were exchanged between the two for a while. Willem, as expected, stayed slightly pissed off and Arthur glowered back even though he felt like the size of a child while being scolded by an impatient adult. The air was intimidating, thick and heavy like fog, and it continued to circulate around Arthur even when Willem straightened back up, mumbled out, "Farewell for now. I'll see you at Antwerp", and departed Nonsuch Palace.

Arthur's eyes remained locked on where Willem's small, green ones used to be. He let his words sink deep into his brain before peeking over at Willem's shrinking figure, limping to the stables to collect his horse and other necessities.

 _Just don't weep too loudly when he slices your limbs off._

A spark of fire jumped in his Arthur's throat as he grunted in frustration, slamming the castle's door shut. The wood shook from the impact and the sound reverberated down the long hallway. Arthur scowled and then whipped around, heading back to the throne room with his fists clenching tightly at his sides.

 _I am_ not _afraid of that idiot Spain,_ he ranted angrily in his head. _Let him come if he wants; he won't even be able to make it across the English Channel before I tear down his blasted ships. Philip is an arrogant little cunt who won't even think about his attack properly and he'll end up losing all of his men due to his vengeful, cocky intentions. They're all a bunch of hopeless idiots! They don't have what it takes to invade my country; their plan will ultimately fail…won't it?_

Arthur shook his head rapidly, trying to be rid of any uncertainties that dawdled in the back of his mind. He couldn't—no, he wouldn't—allow himself to think such thoughts. The key to winning a fight was to believe in oneself, to keep hitting back until the other falls dead, even if they brought guns and swords and axes and cannons to the dispute. He needed this mindset in order to overcome the intimidation of getting involved with Willem and Antonio's twenty-year-long battle[3] and spread it to the rest of his people.

And to his queen if she hadn't realized what she'd done already.

When he returned to the throne room, only Elizabeth was present in the huge, dimly-lit chamber. She sat motionless and expressionless at her throne, her back straight, her hands folded. He shut the doors behind him (perhaps a little louder than necessary) and then looked around them.

"Walsingham and Cecil?" he simply asked.

Elizabeth glanced at another door off to her left—this one was much smaller and was tucked into the far corner of the room. "In the courtroom. I told them to record what has happened here today—it's not much, but it'll keep them occupied for some time."

"I see." He nodded slowly as he made his way toward her, strolling upon the long red rug that lead up to the beautifully crafted throne.

"Are you angry with me as well?"

The question made his legs slow down to a stop. He peered at her, confused. He was still quite a distance from her, but he could clearly see fear and disappointment in her facial features.

"No? Why would I be?"

She lowered her eyes to her lap and began to slowly twist her wedding ring around her finger. Arthur's eyebrows crinkled, growing more puzzled by the second. Angry with her? That was an odd inquiry coming from her. Did something happen since he'd been gone? And why was she acting so shameful, twisting her jewelry around like an embarrassed teenage girl? That wasn't like her in the slightest.

"Walsingham and Cecil don't wish to assist the Dutch," she answered quietly. "Walsingham left the room with a huff and Cecil—my dear Eyes—didn't even speak to me. They don't approve of the treaty between Sir Netherlands and us." She frowned. "I didn't think it would affect them personally."

He frowned as well. "This shouldn't affect your personal feelings either. Not everyone's wishes can come true. I suspect they're nervous which I understand why…" He paused for a moment, searching and collecting the right words. "Elizabeth, this treaty might not be what we originally thought. The intention was to supply Netherlands with horses and soldiers to assist the Dutch rebels in raising the siege of Antwerp, correct? Well, somewhere between the lines, it could also mean—"

"That the Dutch were hoping that King Philip would hear of the treaty and then swiftly send his army here in an invasion just so they can be out of Spain's sight for a while? Yes, I know."

Arthur blinked. "You…knew about this beforehand?"

She shot him a glare. "Yes. I'm not stupid."

He stared back, more baffled than ever before. "Then why did you sign it?"

In an impatient tone, she muttered out, "Because people are _dying,_ Arthur. That should be a legitimate excuse for doing so."

"People die all the time," he sighed, "and there's nothing you can do about it; you can't save the entire world, you know."

His queen was particular, hot-headed, and unyielding, but she definitely wasn't violent. She always insisted peaceful terms and resented the thought of war. She even offered refuge to the Huguenot survivors shortly after hearing of the St. Bartholomew's Day massacre in France, completely shocked and disgusted by that bloody event (not to mention save her cousin's life several times).[4] He admired her need to stay neutral—more like envied, really—but he knew she'd eventually have to choose a side, even if it meant hurting others in the process.

"More innocent people are being slaughtered because of their religion!" She shook her head sadly. "We all worship the same God; why can't they comprehend that? These killings remind me of my late sister's burnings."

"So you signed it to somehow fix Mary's executions, to bring justice to her victims? Or are you revengeful toward King Philip and want to fight back?"

She stopped fiddling with the ring and then wrapped her hands into loose fists, her fingers curling into the cedar brown satin that made up her gown. "Do you not listen to my words? My purpose is to provide aid to the Dutch rebels—it is as simple as that."

"In Philip's eyes, you just signed your name upon a declaration of war. He and that disastrous Spain will be docking our shores any day now." His voice became sharper and louder, ringing around the walls like the swift jolt of the bow on a violin string.

"People have been telling me that for years. I understand there's a _possibility_ he'll take action when he hears of this treaty, yet nothing is guaranteed; it's still merely a rumor."

"If you truly believe that, then why do you appear so afraid?"

 _You can hide your honest feelings from everybody else, but you cannot conceal them from me,_ he told her mentally, knowing she could hear him crystal clear. He watched her purse her lips and her collarbone jut out as another surge of anxiety course through her. Her eyes bore into his own as if she were looking at King Philip himself. It was a look that rarely adorned her face; only a handful of people have seen Elizabeth terrified. She tried to cover up still by shamefully lowering her gaze to the rug underneath his feet, her hands gripping at her dress even tighter, the stiff fabric crinkling in her grasp. He could also hear a faint, unsteady breath escape her.

 _She's worse than I thought she would be._

"Have you prepared for their arrival?" he asked her gently as he resumed his trip to her side again.

There was a moment of silence before she answered quietly, "I'm going to contact a certain gentleman to see if he can assist in leading an army."

"Which man?"

Another pause. "Francis Drake."[5]

Arthur stopped in his tracks once more. His face twisted in confusion, Elizabeth's reply sinking deep into his brain. He looked up at her. "Why does that name sound so familiar?"

"He's the sea captain you despise so much."

His fingers snapped in recognition. "That's right! He's the madman you knighted back in eighty-one and who won't keep his mouth shut about his oh-so-wonderful life of theft and the bloody ocean."

Elizabeth, though still fearful of the situation, glowered at his poor choice of words. "Don't be cruel, Arthur."

"I'm just informing you that he may not be a suitable man for such an important role. Who's to say he won't become 'distracted' and abandon his duties just to capture more Spanish property? Nothing would get accomplished with him around."

Arthur had seen Drake on more than one occasion and always thought ill of him. The man was cocky, loud, chatty, obnoxious, and constantly causing trouble. He boasted about his adventures overseas and laughed over Spanish threats. He didn't hold back anything and said whatever popped into his mind, even if it got him into further turmoil. Arthur and Elizabeth had dinner with the captain many times before and after his knighthood and he showed them his great expeditioner ship, the Grand Hind. He knew she liked Drake well—she chuckled at his jokes and listened to his stories intently—but he just couldn't see the amiability. Arthur also didn't share the same passion for exploration and life at sea that Drake and Elizabeth did. He viewed ships as mere transportation, nothing more than a business outing. He wasn't interested in undiscovered lands or hidden gold or even robbing Antonio of his precious treasure. All he really needed was here in London, sitting on the throne before him with a golden crown atop her head.

"There are much worse things a man can do when serving his country," Elizabeth countered, leaning forward in her seat. "I shan't dismiss Drake for the sole purpose of your dislike for him. Besides I'll require a strong and able navigator to steer the fleet clear toward Antwerp and back with the ability to bear the weight of a possible Spanish attack on both land and water; Drake is one of the few men I can trust with that responsibility."

"You don't need two men of the same capabilities on the same journey. I'm already going and if he travels with me, then there's—"

"You're not going to Antwerp."

He stopped arguing for a moment, giving his mind enough time to process his queen's order. Not going? What was the meaning of that? She just authorized a treaty between him and "Sir Netherlands" that required Arthur to sacrifice his own men for a cause that didn't even involve him and he was prohibited from traveling with them? Where was the sense in that? He was the best soldier, best captain, and best naval officer she had! He contained far more experience, wisdom, and combat skills than any other Englishman out there—not to mention it would be _extremely_ difficult to kill him during battle—thus it was a foolish decision to keep him from any act of war. He also held the confidence that he would crush any Spaniard that came his way, another trait that most men did not carry. The command left him flabbergasted; why must it be this way?

After glaring meticulously at one another, crumpled by a silence that weighed as much as Michelangelo's _Piet_ _à_ _,_ Arthur slowly but successfully lifted it high above them: "I would like to hear your logic behind this one."

Elizabeth's fear of her own actions was now no more. Anger fueled her pointed stare and she fired back with as much heated fortitude as he had. "Your person and well-being is the utmost importance and no form of damage should fall upon you."

He shook his head, lips tight, eyes disbelieving. "That's utter rubbish and you know it."

The fury in her eyes flared up like a strong wind pushing against the growing fire. "Rubbish, you say?"

"Completely. You understand perfectly well that I cannot die, no matter how hard others may try, so keeping me here when I could be freeing the Dutch or slaughtering Spaniards is a waste of my abilities. I am—"

"Oh, don't flatter yourself, you fool! A good swipe of the sword across your neck and you'll be rendered useless for the rest of the battle. And do you dare to turn a blind eye to Sir Netherlands's injuries? If we're not careful, your body will suffer from the same wounds that he has. That is something I cannot allow to happen for as long as I shall live."

"Sir Netherlands is much smaller than I—kingdom-wise that is—and those rebels of his only have the slightest idea of what they are doing. That's why he's—"

"My interests do not involve the size of his fucking domain. Why are you so insistent to change my mind? Do you wish to become as weak and damaged as when you were infected with the plague?"

That heavy silence returned once more, but Arthur didn't let it settle down this time. "I shouldn't have told you that," he muttered under his breath.

"No!" She stood up swiftly like a rabbit hopping out of its hole. "Don't you ever say that to me! It's not fair for you to know every harsh detail of my existence when I barely know a thing about yours."

Their tempers rose as did their voices, echoing around the room, the insults and defenses ringing back in their ears.

"Another poor excuse coming from your mouth again! I tell you everything you want to know, but now I'm debating if I should or not if you're going to take everything personally instead of professionally. Now would you—"

"Are you saying that I should take everything you say as your queen instead of as your spouse?"

"No, that's not what I'm…" He huffed angrily. "Would you stop trying to change the subject?"

"I've told you in the past that I've tried to separate those two positions," she went on as she stormed over to where he stood, her heels clicking rapidly. "I thought there was time to be a wife and there was time to be a queen, but after seeing and experiencing so much with you by my side, I've realized that it's impossible—I'll always see you as a husband before I see you as a country, as a business partner. And you can't blame me for that."

"I'm not—"

He was cut off by a quick and audible slap across his face. Though Elizabeth's hand was small and he could tell she wasn't putting all her strength into the hit, his left cheek stung nevertheless.

"Stop talking and let me fucking finish," she snarled at him.

With a low exhale, he did as she commanded and turned his head back to her, their faces only inches apart, their breaths pushing against the other's face like livid bulls. His eyes lingered on her frowning lips at first, but then they slowly traveled up to her eyes, those dark irises burning in rage and fear.

"I know you don't bled like us mortals and I know you carry so much skill and knowledge when it comes to history and military strategies," she said in a dangerously calm voice, "but you're more to me than another pawn of the chessboard. So, pardon me if my decision comes across as biased; I will not treat you like some weapon of war just how the kings before me did. It pains me to see how other rulers are more than willing to throw their nation into utter turmoil for such stupid reasons. I refuse to see you covered in blood and bruises, no matter how comfortable you claim to be in it. You shall remain here where you will be safe from all bodily harm."

She hesitated before stating her final remark, her gaze slowly shifting into a longing and sorrowful look: "I am also offended that you firstly think of me as your monarch rather than your wife."

She didn't let him speak his mind or defend himself in any sort of way; the disappointed queen briskly walked away without saying another word. He remained still, eyes fixed on the empty throne before him, listening to Elizabeth's heels click away until they were drowned out by the sound of a slamming door.

 _No! You have it all wrong!_ he wanted to yell after her. _Open your mind a little wider, will you? I'm not fighting for myself or for the state of this country! Despite your claims, I don't relish at the thought of killing humans, even if they belong to Spain or Netherlands or even fucking France for all I care. I don't want to venture out to sea, searching for any dispute I can start or join in. I don't want any of this, I never did. Why can't you see my point? Why can't you see that I'm doing this all for…!_

Sensing a storm brewing inside of him, Arthur marched out the room (through a different door, of course), out the palace, and out into the surrounding fields, all the while gripping the handle of his broadsword like how one grips the collar of a rabid dog. He didn't return to Nonsuch until the moon and stars hung high in the black sky, leaving behind a trail of tree bark shavings and the skin of his knuckles.

Arthur and Elizabeth didn't address the issue until three weeks later once the Queen's men had been shipped off to Antwerp to help defend the Dutch rebels.

This wasn't the first time they fought and Arthur knew it certainly wouldn't be the last time either—their short tempers and strongminded nature often clashed with one another—but the chilly atmosphere between them lasted longer than usual. They spoke of business like how they would any other day, but the meaningless conversations in between meetings and the empty kisses they would leave on the other's cheek was starting to become intolerable. He knew why Elizabeth was upset with him, but she misunderstood his reasoning for being upset with her. He wanted to tell her what went wrong and to fix things between them; he had to. _If only she'd stop turning the other way when I try to address her,_ he thought as he watched her leave the courtroom without a second glance (or any glance at all).

He tried catching her eye whilst in court, tapping her wrist during public events, offer to take her on a walk or go on a hunting trip, he even brought her a bouquet of handpicked red and white roses and practically begged to let him explain himself (all with a blushing face too). She ignored each attempt or at least pretended not to hear him (she did, however, sheepishly take the flowers with a minute smile tugging at her lips—he could only accept this as a good thing and figured he was getting somewhere). He hated the silent treatment, especially when it came from her, a woman who loved to talk and one he could listen to all day. He'd prefer to hear her shout at him, scream and hiss and curse to the high heavens—at least then would they be going in some direction rather than being stuck in this mute abyss.

He fell asleep with these thoughts picking at his heart and brain, wishing Elizabeth would turn over and look at him, but for many nights he stared at the back of her head, the bed unbearably cold, his arms empty, aching.

Until the morning came when he woke to find himself in hers.

His eyelids slowly peeled open, thick with sleep, once he grew aware of something light touching his forehead. He blinked a few times to get accustomed to the glow of the morning sun and peeked up. He found Elizabeth propped up on one elbow while gently playing with his hair, appearing both sleepy and attentive. Though he knew she would disagree with him, Arthur always found her so stunning first thing in the morning when she wasn't adorned in big, elegant gowns or wearing several layers of makeup. He observed the small scars on her arms and neck, left behind from her smallpox attack over a decade ago, and her shaved head, also evidence of the disease (he remembered the day when she asked one of her ladies-in-waiting to cut off her falling locks—she absolutely loathed it, but she didn't want to pull out clumps of hair for the rest of her life either).

His eyes traced her naked facial features—the curves in her skin that came with age, the slender lips he's kissed so many times before, the warm brown irises that were full of life, intelligence, and hope—and then blinked away, feeling trapped somehow. Here was the opportunity he'd been searching for: Elizabeth was waiting on him, her attention focused on his speech and body language. He obviously had a lot to say, but now that his chance was within reach, he wasn't sure what to say first.

He pondered. _You're wrong? You're angry? You're beautiful?_

He mentally shook his head, annoyed with himself already. _No, you fucking idiot, none of that nonsense will work; it'll piss her off more than anything. Just…say something else._

This clearly wasn't a smart move, for he instantly became nervous and blurted out something just as ridiculous: "You're awake."

Her expression stayed impassive and her fingers continued weaving through his ruffled hair. "Yes," she simply stated.

Embarrassed, he attempted to cover up his first words of the day. "For how long, I mean?"

"A while."

He frowned, not satisfied with the monotone answers given to him. "Are you in need of anything?"

"Not really."

"Then why did you wake me?"

She shrugged one shoulder. "Just to annoy you, I suppose."

He huffed and closed his eyes once again. He caught Elizabeth chuckle quietly, a sound he hadn't heard in a while. A quiet moment swam between them like a great shark slowly making its way through the big, blue sea. Arthur clutched the bedsheets beneath him as his brain struggled to organize all the jumbled thoughts crashing into one another. He _had_ to close this quarrel of theirs, to melt the frigid air that began to shroud their relationship. But it was always a challenge to cheer up or soothe Elizabeth's hard surface, for she was a very unpredictable and complex woman (much like others who shared the same sex as she—Arthur still couldn't comprehend their mystifying ways).

Accusations and blunt remarks eventually shifted into soft confessions and understanding within his mind. He slowly opened his mouth as a carefully constructed sentence began to vocalize: "Lizzie, see here—"

"I'm still upset with you."

He exhaled heavily, the rest of his sentence disappearing with his breath. "Yes, I know."

"And I understand that the feelings are mutual. Your pained expression speaks for you."

His eyelids peeked open again and he aimed his annoyed glare at Elizabeth's impassive one. "Yet you do nothing to change the situation. Why do you listen now when I've been pleading for you to all month long?"

She stopped playing with his hair and then dropped her hand in the space between them, tapping her finger in a rhythmic pattern. "I won't listen to you if you continue to use that condescending tone, you twat."

She smirked and he rolled his eyes. "You're utterly mad," he mumbled into his pillow.

"So I've been told."

That giant yet soundless shark began making its way into their conversation once more, but Arthur refused to let it swallow them whole again. He shifted slightly, peered at an oddly shaped scar on her jawbone, and spoke quietly though effectively, "There is a reason why I wish to lead an army against Spain, one that you're unaware of."

She blinked slowly—perhaps out of drowsiness—and then lowered herself back onto the stiff mattress with her eyes still trained on him, saying nothing. He took that as a sign for him to continue.

"From my experiences, I've learned that men go to war not for the same reasons, not at all. The idea is to inspire Englishmen to fight for their country, their home, their pride—essentially everything that makes up my existence—but many of them don't go for those things. They battle for family, companions, spouses, themselves, peace, righteousness, better lives. Usually political issues won't drive the common man to sign up for long wars or violent clashes. It's always personal; passion and purpose often make these types of decisions for mortals.

"I found myself surprisingly envious of these mortalities for a very long time. In the past century, all battles that I attended seemed just like another business gathering. There was no fight-worthy cause running through my veins, but only the same simple goal in my head: to win. It's been a while since I actually felt nervous or excited about a war. But now I have you, something I can lose, something worth fighting for."

His gaze stayed locked on that tiny scar outlining her jaw, too shy to meet her eyes. His fingers hesitantly reached out and dragged along her strong jawline before sliding down her slender throat and then resting at her lovely collarbone where the locket of a familiar necklace dangled. It was a gold cursive A, nothing more, nothing less.[6] He unconsciously grabbed it and ran a thumb over it as he bit his bottom lip to suppress a growing smile. Elizabeth had this necklace long before she became queen; she sported the jewelry in some portrait when she was still just a girl. He once asked her what the A stood for. She grinned and said it was for many names. A for Anne, A for Ashley, A for Arthur…

His crooked smile widened despite the loose bite on his lower lip as he went on:

"I'm more than willing to go to war because I now have a purpose, one that is stronger than a treaty or another piece of land. I want to fight for you, Lizzie. I understand you're scared of spilt blood because I am as well: I'm afraid that it will be your blood if I merely sit back and do nothing. All the danger and all the hardships I'll have to endure will not freeze my nerves nor my mission. As long as you are safe, I'll be fine."

He paused and then added, "And I only argue with you _because_ you're my wife, _because_ I care about the decisions you make. I didn't argue with your father, sister, or brother because I wasn't concerned with what they were doing anymore; they kept fucking things up anyhow."

From the corner of his eye, he saw her skinny lips spread wide in an amused smile, her teeth glimmering in the sunlight. "That can't be true. I believe you were much too worried and didn't know how to address my family members without creating more 'nonsense'. You're too careful, my darling, which also makes you too predictable."

He frowned, peering up at her. "You'll never stop disagreeing, will you? I'm trying to make amends here and you're _still_ teasing me."

Her mocking grin faltered, but didn't disappear completely as if she were holding back another verbal response. He stared at the expression in her eyes, watching it shift from playful to thoughtful to subdued. Her smile wavered some more and a small sigh escaped through her teeth. She sluggishly tangled her fingers around Arthur's hand, the one that held the decades old necklace.

She opened her mouth to speak of some excuse or apology—"Arthur, I know that you…"—which retold his thoughts to focus on her warm hands and the way she said his name. More small and innocent notices came to his attention; the goal of mutuality was stronger now. He wanted to hold Elizabeth in his arms again without the weight of a heavy burden upon their shoulders, but he was too impatient to wait any longer for this blasted storm to pass.

 _Screw it,_ he thought as grabbed her chin with his other hand and kissed her full on the mouth.

It didn't take her too long to return the affectionate gesture; she tenderly kissed him back and squeezed his loose clutch on her locket, fingers firmly woven between his own. It was apparent that Elizabeth wished for the same things he did by how tightly she held onto him and how he could feel her eyebrows crinkle against his forehead with each concentrated kiss she gave. His heartbeat picked up speed as he unconsciously moved to hover over her, knees planted right beside her thighs.

His hands glided up her neck and then cradled the back of her fuzzy head while Elizabeth tugged on the suede ribbons sewed into his linen shirt, her fingertips brushing against his slim but sturdy chest. Her legs curled around his calves and he felt her nose squish up against his cheek, her kisses deep and yearning. The bed creaked slightly underneath them, the covers ruffled up with each move they made. During this whole exchange, their lips never parted and their hands never lifted until Arthur had to physically pull away, reminding himself to say what he meant to all along.

"I love you," he whispered as he leaned his forehead against Elizabeth's, breathing in her acquainted scent of fresh roses and writing ink.

Those gorgeous brown eyes of hers peered up at him in wonder. He could see her thoughts and discoveries flicker across her enlarged pupils, decoding his movements and the desperate words he uttered. She glanced at his split lips and then back into his eyes. A sorrowful look suddenly overcame her—her eyelids, eyebrows, and the corners of her mouth lowered slowly and all at once—as a heavy sigh fled from her lips, hot air pushing against his chin and neck.

"I know," she whispered back, dread present in her voice as well. Her hand reached up and gently cupped his right cheek, the tips of her fingers brushing against his hooped earrings, her thumb lightly grazing his bottom lip. She offered him a sad smile and he took it as a mark of realization; she now understood that he would—no, he _wanted_ to—go to great lengths to show his love and dedication for his queen.

Never before had he felt so prepared for battle. Never before had he possessed something worth fighting for.

"And I suppose it is my duty as your spouse to not hold you back from what it is you desire," she murmured. She studied his face some more as if making sure that this is what he wanted and then sighed again. "Just don't get hurt in the process, you fucking madman."

"It is all for you, love." He placed another sweet kiss upon her lips and then drew away with a soft smile. "And of course I'll refrain from withstanding any physical injuries."

She glared. "I'm not joking."

"Neither am I."

"Hm."

She then wrapped her arms around his neck with the same sour expression on her face; he bit down on the inside of his cheek to keep from chuckling. "Well, if it is trouble you seek, then I have a request for you before you throw yourself into any sort of warfare with Spain."

He raised an eyebrow. "What sort of trouble?"

"Do go and check on my dear cousin Mary. Somedays I believe she wants me dead more than Philip does."

It took Arthur two days to reach Chartley Hall in Staffordshire (he could've gotten there faster, but he just really didn't want to go there in the first place). Upon sight of the old stone building, part of him was relieved that he could now just walk in, speak with Mary and Paulet[7] for a short while, and then head back home. But the other part of him was anxious to get out of there, even though he hadn't taken a step inside yet.

He dismounted his horse and tied the reins around a wooden pole before marching across the flat bridge that led to the moated manor. As he came closer, he spotted two soldiers stationed by the entrance, a broadsword gripped in their gloved hands, the tips aimed at the cloudy sky above. They stood straight and rigid in their light armor and no signs of laziness or boredom could be sensed within their demeanor.

 _I shouldn't be surprised at Mary's new jailors and imprisonment regulations,_ Arthur thought as he started fishing through his leather satchel, _but I somehow am._

Once within earshot, one of the guards called out in a challenging voice, "What brings you here?"

"I'm here on business." He pulled out a folded piece of paper and then handed it over when he came to a stop three feet in front of them. "Her Majesty has sent me here to inspect and report back Mary Stuart's condition. It shouldn't be but a moment's time."

He watched the young men study the written letter like it was a puzzling mathematical equation. _They mustn't have too many visitors out here._ A short nod was then exchanged between them and Arthur was given back Elizabeth's confirmation.

"Very well," one soldier replied as he stepped back and pried open one of the double doors. "You may enter."

Arthur stuffed the paper into his bag and walked through the wide doorway without another word, fully intent on keeping his promise of staying only for "a moment's time."

He continued down the large, soundless hallway, taking note of the strange atmosphere. Chartley Hall was an attractive building with its outside gardens and subtle yet pleasant interior, but the lack of activity and guards stationed at almost every door or opening changed the seemingly calm aura into an uncomfortable one. Arthur put his hands in his pockets and acted like he knew where Mary was being kept, his pace quick and slick, hoping to use his context clues to find the fallen Queen of Scotland. He luckily didn't have to play pretend for too long for he soon noticed Amyas Paulet walking out of a room with a young guard and servant trailing behind him.

"Now don't go and make the woman fearful of you," he was saying to the guard. "Even though she is a prisoner, she is to be treated with patience and respect, under Her Majesty's orders. If she becomes frightened, then she'll become even more untrustworthy than she now. And we don't want that."

Paulet glanced pass the soldier's nodding head, spotting Arthur. "Ah, Lord England. I haven't seen you in Staffordshire in a while."

Arthur bowed his head slightly in greetings. "Good afternoon, Sir Paulet. I hope all is well?"

"Everything's just fine, yes." He turned to the adolescences beside him. "Young soldier, go free Anthony of his duty by the back door near the gardens. And you, young lady, go to the kitchens and help prepare Mary's meal."

The boy bowed and the girl curtseyed before they both hurried off in their separation directions.

Paulet strolled over to Arthur and shook his head firmly. "I presume you came here under Our Queen's orders?"

"Yes. I came to check on Mary's physical and emotional state. She hasn't done anything suspicious or deceiving, has she?"

"Not that I've noticed." The old man turned and began walking down the hall while stroking his thick, sandy blond beard. Arthur caught up with him just in time for Paulet to continue speaking.

"Sir Walsingham has been coming here once every fortnight, doing all sorts of things. He delivers letters to and from Mary, listens to her endless babble, and even goes hunting with her entourage." He eyed him attentively. "Now don't think the poor lad actually _enjoys_ spending much of his time observing our prisoner. He always has a childish pout on his face whenever he's here."

Arthur smirked at that mental image. "I have no doubts."

"We cannot blame him for possessing a sour attitude however. Walsingham informed me that Mary has been awfully upset in her arguments lately, complaining about the Queen's lack of communication with her and demanding that she shouldn't be placed under such conditions. What ignorance! She can be locked in a rat-infested cell or only get a cup of water and a slice of bread for her meals. And how oblivious she must be if she fails to realize just how busy and hectic it can be to run a kingdom—bloody hell, _she_ was Queen of Scotland! I see no room for any excuses." Paulet curved slightly toward Arthur and mumbled, "That's _my_ excuse for when she keeps asking for Queen Elizabeth's response: it's most certainly _not_ due to the fact that none can stand her presence—including Her Majesty—nor necessarily want to engage in conversation with her, but because people are merely too _busy_." He straightened up. "A senseless answer for a senseless question. Anyhow, Mary's behavior is becoming more and more troublesome. Greater actions of securing her person, I presume, ought to be taken."

Arthur peered down the hallway and frowned, recalling what Elizabeth said before sending him there. "Her Majesty fears as much."

While Paulet jabbered on and Arthur tuned in and out to whatever he said, they followed long, narrow halls and traveled up a flight of stairs, their footsteps echoing loudly in the eerily silent manor. Arthur blinked at a closed door down a short hallway with two guards planted beside it. As he expected, Paulet turned toward their destination and then stopped in front of the tall soldiers.

"Has she moved from her chamber today?" he inquired.

A guard with a thick brunet mustache and wrinkly skin shook his head. "No, sir. Not since this morning."

"Hm. Stuck in another bout of self-pity? Silent tears often adorn this particular mood of Mary's; urging her to comply may be proved difficult."

Paulet gave Arthur an indifferent glance before tapping his knuckles against the wooden door.

"Mary?" he called out. "You have a visitor. May we enter?"

There was a long pause on the other end and Paulet raised his fist once more, but a soft voice finally sounded, "You may."

Arthur watched Paulet turn the door's iron handle and sighed quietly. _Let's get this over with._

The door opened slowly with a loud creak, revealing a small bedchamber. A single window was positioned at the far wall near the corner which was the room's current source of light. An unoccupied bed was placed by the wall opposite the window with a tiny nightstand beside it which held an unlit wax candle and some notes or letters sprawled out beneath it. Mary sat at a desk that was also littered with papers, hunched over in concentration as she wrote rapidly, her pen scratching loudly. A wooden cross hung from above the bureau with a small tapestry of St. Paul right next to it. In short, Mary's chamber was small, cold, and very dull—it was more than enough for a prisoner.

"Mary, you have a visitor," Paulet repeated, sauntering into the room. "Lord England is present and your full attention is much appreciated."

At that, Mary's head slowly lifted from her papers and turned toward Arthur. He studied her physical condition, taking note of how little and frail her bones seemed to be. Her green embroidered dress was too loose on her and her hair, although pulled back into a bun on the top of her head, was stringy and oily, the color appearing more like a muddy brown instead of a walnut or hickory. Dark bags drooped beneath her equally dark eyes and her pasty skin sunk into her cheeks and collarbone (though not so deeply as if she were a walking skeleton).

Arthur was reminded of Elizabeth when she was locked up in the Tower of London, but he pushed away the thought automatically, not wanting to dwell on the memory now.

"Good afternoon, Mary," he greeted as he stepped further into the room, hands clasped behind his back. "How do you do—?"

"Lord England." Mary carefully arose from her chair with the silence and smoothness of an apparition. Her sleepless eyes widened in shock, her sickly pale fingers gripped the cream-colored quill pen. "I never thought I'd see the day when you'd walk across that threshold."

Her voice was low and breathy as if she couldn't believe he was really there. He pursed his lips and replied, "Yes, well, I'm here to see how you're doing. I've heard that you've been quite upset recently."

Her shoulders slumped at the conversation shifter. She stabbed her pen into the tiny inkpot that sat upon her disordered desk. "Upset is an understatement. I've been kept as an English prisoner for more than fifteen years and my happiness has yet returned to me. I get lonelier every day and no soul seems to understand my situation, my desperation. I haven't seen any of my precious people in so many years."

She paused and looked up at him. "Have you heard from Allister at all?"

Arthur blinked. "I'm sorry?"

"Lord Scotland. Allister Kirkland. Has he written to you or spoke with you recently? I haven't heard anything from him in so long; I thought he would at least visit or send me a letter."

Arthur stole a glance at Paulet who looked back at him with an apathetic expression. He frowned, turned to Mary again, and then answered, "Scotland only writes me letters of business, of trade and of conflicts. He's…very busy serving his king, your son, who is still young and requires teachings of governing."[8]

Mary nodded, peering down at a particular wood graving in the floor. She didn't seem sad upon hearing the news—no tears brimmed at the corners of her eyes and her face didn't twist in distress. She just stared, unblinkingly.

"He was always there for me, Allister I mean," she murmured. "I remember following him around as a child and he called me 'wee lamb' for doing so. He still called me that even when I moved to France and when I became Queen of Scotland. I suppose I never really noticed that he was there until he wasn't. I haven't seen his face in almost twenty years." She sighed lowly. "But why isn't he here now, when I need him the most?"

"Because Lord Scotland has other things to do," Paulet responded, his tone bored. "Did you not hear Lord England's reply?" He absentmindedly smoothed out the wrinkles in his jerkin.

Mary's head suddenly snapped up. "Hold on, why _are_ you here? Did Elizabeth send you?" she asked Arthur.

He nodded once. "Yes. I'm to—"

"Oh, then you must give these to her!"

Mary frantically gathered all the handwritten letters strewn across her bureau. She didn't bother to organize them in chronological order, but hurriedly grasped at them as if she feared they would sprout legs and run away. She ended up knocking over her inkpot in the process which spilled onto some of the letters, her hand, and the desk. Paulet moped and exclaimed Mary's name before storming over and setting the pot upright again. The Scottish woman didn't register anything however and then rushed over to her nightstand where the rest of the letters sat. Her hand swatted at the candle which fell to the floor with a muffled _bang!_ She collected all those letters as well and ran to Arthur just as her name escaped from Paulet's lips again.

She shoved the papers into his arms—there must have been at least two dozen of them—and gripped his wrists, smearing black ink over them. He flinched, gazing up at her. She stood a good four inches over him; he was admittedly uncomfortable with her towering height looming over him like a willow tree. With her abnormal height, black stained hands, and wide dark eyes staring at him, she became the personification of madness itself.

"Please give these to Elizabeth," she breathed. "All of these are for her. Some are from months ago and some are not even completed, but they still must be taken to her. Please tell her to respond to them. I ache to see her signature again, to know that she's listening to my woes. She is my dear cousin and I hers. We're the only family we've got left. I'll read anything she has to write, even if it is merely business."

She smiled, her teeth yellow and crooked. "I know she'll respond to me if you tell her to. You're one of her favorites, right?"

Arthur cringed slightly. "I beg your pardon?"

"Elizabeth has her favorites, doesn't she? I did as queen, and I still do. She always gives the best titles, the best pay, the best of everything to the ones she trusts the most. She wrote fondly of men like Cecil and Walsingham; she referred to you as 'Lord Arthur Kirkland' instead of 'Lord England'. Cecil and Walsingham come here quite often—no doubt to see if I'm up to no good—but I haven't seen you since the day you came to shackle me up as a prisoner. Elizabeth must always want you by her side if she doesn't dare to send you out on the simplest of tasks."

He glared. "I am doing what I am being told to do."

"Of course you are which is why you must give my letters to her. She'll listen to you if no one else. Please take them. Please tell her to write me back."

"Mary, that is enough." Paulet grabbed at her hands and ripped them away from Arthur. A letter flew from his grasp and fell to the floor. Mary gasped and reached down to pick it up, but Paulet was quicker than her. He snatched it before she could and held her back from Arthur's person.

"No! I need that back!" Mary insisted, attempting to reach for it.

"This is why your freedom is shrinking day by day," Paulet said. He kept the crumbled letter away from her like he was keeping a toy from a greedy child. "Your behavior is irrational and immature. You must control yourself."

"I wrote that for Elizabeth! Please give it back!"

Paulet threw a glare at Arthur. "Lord England, it would be best if you left now."

He didn't need to be told twice. Arthur gripped whatever he could in his arms and whipped around, heading out of the room.

"No! Wait, Lord England! Please! Please give this to her!" Mary's shrill voice could still be heard as Arthur moved briskly out the chamber, down the hall, and down the staircase. She sounded afraid, pleading for him to stop, yet he didn't comply nor heed to her cries. He got what he came for and he refused to stay any longer.

 _What will I tell Elizabeth?_ he began to wonder anxiously. _That Mary's mad and has the capability to hurt others? That she's causing her jailors misery just for looking after her? One thing is for certain and that is her desperation to get to Elizabeth. And desperation can be a very dangerous thing._

 _Elizabeth's right: Mary wants her dead more than Philip does._

Arthur returned to London roughly within twenty-four hours. He didn't mention anything of Mary's letters to Elizabeth; he gave them to Walsingham to decipher, to search for any hidden meanings or deadly plans aiming toward his wife.

"Dear cousin" or not, he wouldn't hesitate to write up Mary's death warrant if anything should happened to Elizabeth.

* * *

[1] We all know him as the Netherlands, but historically this name is incorrect, especially during this time in history. For the longest time, while under the Holy Roman Empire's rule, the Netherlands was simply called Holland. But when Phillip II came along and took control of the country, killing thousands of "Dutch rebels" or Protestants, the citizens got fed up with him and fought back for independence, thus beginning the Dutch Rebellion or the Eighty Years War. They started calling themselves the United Provinces or merely the Dutch Republic (but many other countries just named them the Dutch rebels with "Dutch" meaning a group of people). Calling Holland the Netherlands is like calling England the United Kingdom—they're a part of the kingdom, but not actually the WHOLE kingdom. But, for the sake of this story, I'm gonna stick with Sir Netherlands because it's less confusing and that's who he is in the anime/manga (my apologizes to all you Dutch readers).

[2] After pondering over it for a long time, Elizabeth finally signed the Treaty of Nonsuch in Surrey, England. This would be the first international treaty signed by the Dutch Republic (or the Netherlands). In it was stated that Elizabeth would supply English soldiers to the Dutch rebels whose goal was to kick the Spanish out of their country. In return, England would have the cities Brill and Flushing to garrison at their own expense (these were known as Cautionary Towns). Elizabeth was also provided with the title of Governor General of the Provinces which she turned down—the Dutch were a little confused and offended at this. Shortly after the treaty was signed, Phillip II saw this as an opportunity to invade England and began spending money to send his great Spanish Armada over in a few years.

[3] The Eighty Years War between the Netherlands and Spain started in 1568 and wouldn't end until 1648. The Netherlands got the help of England and France while Spain took them on for eighty years (obviously) until they signed a treaty that was a part of the Peace of Westphalia, recognizing Netherlands as its own country, around the same time that their empire fell. (This is more than likely the reason why Netherlands isn't very keen on hanging out with Spain in the anime.)

[4] The St. Bartholomew's Day massacre began on 23-24 August 1572 and lasted for several weeks. A mob of Catholics and hired assassins stormed into Paris, shut the city gates, and began slaughtering Huguenots (French Protestants). The goal was to kill the Huguenot leader, Gaspard de Coligny (which they did), and the future King Henri IV of France (who was also Protestant). Francis Walsingham was Elizabeth's ambassador at the time and was present at the massacre, barely escaping with his life (yes, it's the same dude in this chapter). The pope apparently approved of the mass killings and it was recorded that King Philip even laughed at hearing the news—it was said that Philip was very serious and hardly ever smiled, so this reaction is very startling—but many other monarchs including Elizabeth, Maximilian II of the Holy Roman Empire, and even Ivan the Terrible of Russia were appalled at the happening. Somewhere between 5,000-30,000 were killed.

[5] Here's the man that represents every stereotypical pirate ever: Francis Drake was one of England's most successful sea captains/naval officers/slave traders. He carried out the second circumnavigation of the world in a single expedition and was the first to be captain and navigate the entire time from 1577 to 1580. He loved pissing off the Spanish by invading their land/ships in America and stealing whatever he could get his hands on and taking it back to England. Naturally the Spanish hated him and dubbed him as El Draque (The Dragon) and King Phillip put a bounty on his head for £6 million ($8 million). He would take the position as second-in-command of the English fleet during the Spanish Armada attack.

[6] This was a thing. In a portrait of 15 or 14 year old Elizabeth, a small but still noticeable A shaped locket could be spotted hanging from her neck. Though everyone thought Anne Boleyn to be a witch, an adulterer, or just an untrustworthy woman, Elizabeth still adored her mother, having lost her at only 2 years old. Henry VIII probably hated Anne the most and the little stunt Elizabeth pulled of wearing this locket in a portrait paid for by her dad was very risky, although the king never spotted or didn't think much of it. Elizabeth's love for her mother never faded as she kept the locket with her for possibly the rest of her life—a very somber but sweet fact about the Virgin Queen.

[7] Amyas Paulet was Mary's jailor during her time spent in Staffordshire. She had many jailors during her 18 year imprisonment, some of which that actually helped her carry out plots to overthrow or assassinate Elizabeth—all of them failed. She was moved to many different manors in many different places during this time.

[8] James IV of Scotland (and soon-to-be James I of England) took the title as king after Mary was forced to abdicate in 1567 but didn't gain full control of the Scottish government until 1583 (he was almost twenty-years-old at this time). Elizabeth, while didn't communicate with Mary often, did frequently send letters to James, trying to get him on her side instead of his mother's. It wasn't hard since James hadn't really known Mary and saw her as an obstacle to overcome which is why he didn't complain about the treatment Mary received in England. Mary's connection with her homeland had fallen during her years in prison; she was truly all alone. (But remember that she was crazy and tried to conjure several plans to assassinate Elizabeth and take over the throne.)


	18. The Heart and Stomach of a King

****Hello again, friends! Finally another chapter done and uploaded (these are getting more detailed and intense than I thought they would be). Hopefully this'll satisfy your monthly dose of England and Elizabeth for a while.**

 **Also, Sunday marks the 100th anniversary of the last day in World War I, which just so happens to fall on Veterans or Remembrance Day (that has to be little bit of destiny, right?) WWI was just full of so many devastations and bravery—10 million lives were lost from 30 different countries, four empires collapsed (the Ottoman, the German, the Austro-Hungarian, and the Russian), and it was the first major war to use airplanes in battle—so here's a friendly reminder to keep all those people who sacrificed everything for the sake of their country (or for the sake of the world itself) in your mind.**

 **Anyway, enjoy the chapter!****

 _30 January 1587_

Arthur released the bowstring, listening to the sound of the arrow zooming pass his ear and spearing through the lone grey rabbit, robbing it of its life. He lowered his bow, observing the dead animal. It laid upon the exposed roots of a yew tree with his arrow stuck in its head. Its dark blood stained the bark of the tree, the snow on the ground, and its ash grey fur. He stared without staring; his conscious left him for a while, abandoning him in the cold truth of reality.

The horse underneath him shook its head, lightly slapping the reins against its thick neck. This motion brought back Arthur's sensibility with the blink of an eye. He sniffed and tossled the steed's mane before throwing his bow into the pack across his back and descending the stallion.

He strolled over to the rabbit, the snow crunching beneath his boots. Once near, he crouched down and pulled the arrow out with ease (the weapon luckily remained in one piece which honestly surprised him). He dropped it in his pack and then grabbed the small circle of rope that hung from his belt. He constructed a noose around the doe's neck, gave it a good tug, and then walked back to his horse with the doe dangling at his side.

His numb fingers tied the end of the noose around a hook near the saddle; two other captured rabbits suspended from it, killed in similar fashions as his recent catch. Arthur finished the knot on the rope and then stepped back. As he did so, his mind floated away once again; his gaze fixed on the lifeless forms of the three rabbits, studying their features.

Their grey or brown fur was matted with dark blood around their neck, ears, and head. Black eyes were open wide just like the entrance to some deep, ominous cave; one rabbit's mouth was left ajar and Arthur could see its yellow buck teeth poking out. Their bodies were minute and their limbs were even more so. He wondered if it was even worth bringing these skinny things back to Westminster Castle—there was little to skin and hardly any meat hung from their bones, marking them as practically useless.

 _What a cruel winter this has been,_ he thought to himself. Reminiscences of the recent past trickled into his memory like a leak in a ceiling and his shoulders tensed at the thoughts.

 _Yes, what a cruel winter, indeed._

Just then, the sound of a horse's hooves galloping in the distance could be heard within the noisy solitude of the white forest. Arthur straightened up and sighed quietly, now staring at his snow-covered boots as he waited patiently for his pissed-off queen to arrive.

He didn't look up at her even when he heard Elizabeth's horse slow to a stop not too far from where he stood. He couldn't formulate the words to somehow address the issue at hand without spurring up more trouble. That's why she dragged him out there in the first place, to get away from her Privy Council's glares and stern remarks. Hunting and riding helped her calm down a bit, but sometimes he wished she would simply go for a walk or play her lute (she _was_ armed with a crossbow, after all). His eyes stayed glued to the ground until she spoke up, a little out of breath: "Darling."

He looked up nonchalantly, looked down, and looked back up again. He blinked at the long, red animal draped across her lap, some blood dripping from a wound in its neck. It appeared well-fed and robust, making it more valuable than his three rabbits combined.

"What is that?" he demanded as he marched around his steed and toward Elizabeth's.

She glanced at him innocently. "A fox."

"No, I mean…" He frowned at himself. " _Where_ was that?"

She raised the dead fox from her lap and handed it to him which he automatically grabbed—it weighed as much as a dachshund. "Far and deep in these woods. It was dragging its nose along the roots of an old tree; perhaps it was searching for one of your rabbits."

Ignoring her last remark, he observed the beautiful creature in his arms. Despite the gash in its neck, everything about it glowed in near perfection: the flesh could feed several people and the fur would make a nice, warm coat or hat, both of which they needed. This was an excellence catch; he almost couldn't believe it.

"How did you…?" he trailed off, carefully setting the fox upon his saddle. He then turned back to Elizabeth who was trying to stay as still as possible in spite of the frigid weather and her worn-out body.

She narrowed her eyes at him as she trembled, swallowing her heavy breaths. "I shot it with my crossbow. Do you not believe me?"

"Oh, I believe you." He walked back to her and, noticing her gloved hands reaching out toward him, he wrapped his own around her waist and lifted her from the horse, planting her right beside him. "But very few people will when they hear that statement coming from the mouth of a disgruntled and exhausted old woman."[1]

He chuckled and she pushed at his chest. "Fifty-three years isn't old compared to you, wanker. Were you not present at the birth of Christ?"

Her cheeks puffed up, holding back a laugh. Smirking slightly, he zoomed in close on her face, hands on his hips, nose brushing against hers. "My dear Queen, you're _so_ entertaining," he playfully mocked. "Don't let anyone tell you not."

This caused that bubble of laughter within her to pop; she snorted loudly in his face which made him snicker in response. She clamped a hand over her mouth and withdrew from him, muffling her giggles. "As you wish, my dear, old wise man," she teased.

She strolled aimlessly as her laughter dwindled gradually, her black riding skirt dragging across the lumpy snow. His grin slowly slipped away like the ice off a window pane in the early morning. Oh, who were they kidding themselves? They were just avoiding the obvious. The chuckles were not genuine, the smiles weren't full; even the loud quiet of the winter woods couldn't drown out the sounds of despair and evasion that rang against their eardrums.

He glanced at Elizabeth's dead fox again and then whispered out, "You have to kill her, Lizzie."

He felt her eyes on him, sharp and quick like the arrow she shot not too long ago. She didn't say anything at first, but she eventually muttered back, "I brought us here to not discuss that topic. And don't use that word—it's too…harsh."

"It's an action, not a—"

"I said don't use it."

He sighed and looked back. Her body was facing away from him and her gaze peered out into the endless woodland. Her arms were crossed and the expression on her face was a mix of anger and hopelessness like she knew what had to be done but didn't like the outcome. She was still trying to escape the responsibility.

"You can't run away from this problem," he added in a calm and sure voice. "Things will get worse if you do. Babington's plot has been exposed, and Mary was a part of it all.[2] If you do not get rid of her, then no doubt she'll find another way to get rid of you."

Elizabeth said nothing and he went on, expressing facts and his opinion.

"Mary wants you dead—that much is true—and if she succeeds, then she'll take over the throne and the country will fall into utter turmoil. Protestants will be murdered again, Philip will get what he wants, and who knows what will happen to me when all this is done. Everything you worked for will be for nothing. It all can be saved if you sign the death warrant. Don't let her win, Lizzie."

"But she is my cousin!" Elizabeth argued. "How can I let death just take her away, like her life is worth nothing? I will not murder my last living family member. Despite everything, she…doesn't deserve this."

" _She gave Catholics permission to kill you_. The evidence is apparent: Mary wishes to take the English throne and will do anything to get it. That is why her execution is necessary; we could save ourselves so much trouble and human lives, not to mention yours."

"Yet if I sign the death warrant, I'm no better than her or all the rulers who slayed the lives of others!" she declared before plopping onto the ground below, her skirts spread out beneath her like the wings of a raven.

He looked down at her sunken form, at her small hands gripping the soft fabric of her skirt. He recollected moments throughout her lifetime when she performed this same tantrum: when she was seven, she threw herself onto a chair in frustration as he quizzed her on historical events and she kept on supplying wrong answers to the same question; at age sixteen, she dropped to the floor and spoke no more when being scolded by her superiors about marriage; and there was the time when she collapsed upon that boulder in an attempt to delay her passage through Traitor's Gate.

 _She may have the body of a fifty-three-year-old woman, but her mind is still young and reckless._

Without meaning to, Arthur snorted at the thought which caused Elizabeth's head to snap in his direction, looking absolutely appalled. "Why do you snicker?" she demanded. "Do you find all this amusing?"

"No, my love," he answered with a slight smile, "but your ageless soul does bring back memories."

He walked forward and then sat cross-legged in the snow by the edge of Elizabeth's skirt. He was painfully aware of her sharp stare locked on him like a lioness debating whether or not to attack the strange and careless lamb. His eyes lingered on a lump in the snow behind his queen as he waited, expecting her to argue sooner rather than later.

One short moment passed. "Where's your anger?"

"I'm sorry?"

"Are you not upset? You say Mary will stop at nothing to obtain the crown, so why do you appear calm and quiet? You were so distraught when I had the smallpox; why is this 'life-threatening matter' any different?"

Pretending to not have heard the shift in her voice under the words "life-threatening matter", Arthur looked at her puzzled yet disgruntled expression. He briefly recalled the surges of terror that kept him up at night with Elizabeth next to him, barely breathing, sweating buckets. Each moment was filled with dread for the future for he didn't know if she'd survive it. He compared that sentiment to the one he felt when she signed the Treaty of Nonsuch, another event that also put her life in peril. Yes, he was frightened and wanted to protect her at all costs, but he felt angrier than anything—his temper rose and his confidence lowered when Elizabeth prevented him from leaving, something he still was a little upset over.

He pondered why this was and then hesitantly answered, "I can't stop a disease from spreading, but I can stop people from getting closer."

His response left her wide-eyed and disturbed. "You mean—" she started.

"I told you I don't like killing people," he softly interrupted. His stare moved slightly to the side again. "But sometimes there is no other choice; sometimes the only option to save your life and those around you is to take the one that is lighting all the fires."

"Even if—"

" _Especially_ if you care about them."

She closed her mouth and looked away as well. Winter silence rang against their eardrums once more but Elizabeth eventually cut it off: "Will I be damned if I allow her to die?"

He glanced at her. "What do you mean?"

She hesitated again, lips frowning, eyebrows furrowed. "Am…I doomed to an afterlife of torment if I order Mary's execution? Will the guilt eat away at my heart until there is nothing left? Signing my name on her death warrant is the same thing as picking up an axe and decapitating her myself." She sighed deeply and then peeked up at him, clearly still distressed. "Have you been in such a situation before? Did you do what others told you or did you do what you believed was right?"

 _That's a mighty difficult inquiry to answer,_ he thought to himself. Reality hit him first: Arthur nearly always did as he was told (he sometimes complained about it, but still obeyed). It was a country's job to carry out orders given to them by their rulers, despite what they may think. It was rare for a nation to defy or ignore their duties, but that was beside the point—all countries followed protocol. But Elizabeth wasn't like him, no matter how hard she tried to be. She had more say in every discussion, she had more freedom to relish in, and her body and soul weren't tied to this land and its people. She could do whatever she pleased and his opinions couldn't hold her back. He chewed on his lip as he pondered, but he eventually pried his teeth away and told her his thoughts.

She didn't say anything at first—her troubled expression hardly altered in the slightest—but then she whispered into the frosty air, "I don't know what to do."

Arthur wasn't certain if it was obvious to her, yet he felt the need to state his view about Mary once more. He wanted her to understand where he was coming from. "I just want you to live the long, happy life that you're entitled to."

Something in her appearance did change this time, but he failed to capture what exactly for a sudden, strong breeze pushed against them—his hair and cloak whipped wildly while Elizabeth squeezed her eyes shut and stiffened her shoulders in defense. Once it passed, he shook his blond fringe back into place, stood up, and then extended his hand out to her.

"I believe that was God's way of informing us that these woods now belong to this abominable winter season," he said. "It's no place for people like us."

"On the contrary, I rather enjoy the chill and the quiet." Still her small hand wrapped around his as he helped her up. "But I'm aware that my body cannot bear it much longer."

Arthur climbed onto the horse that carried the fox and rabbits while Elizabeth mounted the other (without his assistance, of course). Even though their discussion ended on a somewhat lighter note, they rode to Westminster Abbey in silence. He'd occasionally peek at her profile and try to comprehend her current expression, but instead he recognized her famous indifference stare that she wore during heated court assemblies and meetings with arrogant lords. She was covered up now; her true thoughts and feelings were hidden away, now ready to face said arrogant lords. He became mildly annoyed with her muteness, but knew it wouldn't be wise to point it out, so he let it consume them whole once again, hating the winter even more.

Two days later, Elizabeth signed her name upon Mary Stuart's death warrant at a court meeting almost entirely unannounced, surprising and relieving everyone. She remained impassive and didn't say a word to anyone about what drove her to finally validating the warrant. He felt as though he should be heaving a great sigh or shaking hands with other council members like everyone else, but the heaviness of Elizabeth's reticence and somber aura weighed him down. As always, he hated these rare bouts of closed-lipped discussions with her, but he firmly believed that things would get better without the threat of Mary's existence looming over them.

So, he carried on with the preparations while Elizabeth stayed out of it all.

Mary's execution was held a week later at Fortheringay Castle; snow had begun to melt and the temperature was tolerable. Arthur stood by the scaffold as the Scottish prisoner was escorted up the creaky steps. The small crowd before them waited in anticipation, their eyes entirely focused on the unfolding scene. Mary kept her composure well—her back was straight, her hands relaxed, her gaze aimed straight ahead—but no one was impressed, none showed pity. As she came closer to the cement block, her dull, dark eyes peeked at his momentarily. Nothing about her altered; she only stared as if he were merely a sway in the branches, a call of the wind.

Her betrayals were read aloud, she recited a prayer in Latin, and then her neck was placed upon the block. Her ladies-in-waiting held back their sobs as best they could (they weren't very successful). He could faintly hear Mary repeating the same prayer under her breath—her whispers were calm and concentrated, yet he noticed how tightly her hands were clasped together, so much so that they trembled significantly. Finally, the executioner raised his axe high in the air before bringing it back down—and missing her neck completely. Instead the blade sliced off some of the flesh on her cheek, blood flowing down her face.

Utterly aghast, Arthur and another lord hurried toward the scene just as the grim reaper stumbled back as if he were drunk. A horrified gasp escaped Mary, a sharp inhale of breath that she planned to release in a painful scream. Arthur reached for the axe, but the executioner seemed to had gotten a hold on himself and then swung once more. A short shriek erupted from Mary, but the sound was silenced by the blade plunging deep into the back of her neck. More blood spurted from her neck; the axe crashed through her nape again and it was this time that her head was fully separated from her body.

Arthur was shocked at how many whacks it took to decapitate Mary's thin neck. Once the executioner held up her bloodied head for the crowd to see and then stumbled back to take his leave, the other man who ran up with Arthur grabbed him and ripped off the black veil that covered his face. They discovered the contracted killer to have the air and breath of a drunkard to which Arthur responded by firing him on the spot.

 _What a irresponsible bastard!_ he grumbled. _The point of decapitation is for the death to be quick and painless. It took the idiot three strikes to behead the girl and_ fucking missed _the first time._ He shook his head slowly. _What will I tell Elizabeth?_

The question pounded against his skull like a blacksmith's hammer as he dragged himself through the halls of Westminster, sluggishly making his way to Elizabeth's chamber. When he arrived, he quietly tapped his knuckles against the door, eyes observing the red carpeting beneath him. He caught the soft but lovely sound of a lute strumming and then came the even softer call of Elizabeth: "Yes?"

"It's me."

The music came to a slow stop as if the song she was playing had an official coda. Hesitation followed before her reply was perceived: "Do enter."

He did so with the carefulness of a curious cat. Once inside, he silently shut the door and then turned toward his queen who was sitting at her desk with the old lute in her lap. She was looking at him with a wavering expression like a candle's flame against a gentle breeze.

Her cracked lips tightened into a frown. "Did she suffer?" she simply asked.

A pause. "No."

Her stare dropped to the ground; sorrow overcame her features. She sighed heavily and whispered out, "You're a terrible liar."

And then she started to cry.

At the sound, Arthur's heart broke. He walked to her, took the stringed instrument out of her hands, and then kneeled before her, enveloping his arms around her quivering body. She leaned into him and continued to weep with her hands covering her eyes as if she were ashamed of what she had done, as if she were trying to disappear altogether. He knew there was nothing he could say to calm her nerves, so he stayed still and let her tears flow.

She didn't leave her chamber for the rest of the day.[3]

"Your Majesty, may I be perfectly blunt with you?"

"You may."

"The Spanish are a load of knob heads wielding axes and cannons and are heading our way—I believe it to be abundantly clear that we ought to do something about it before they even hear the waves of the English Channel."

A round of agreement spurred amongst the Privy Council members, many nodding their heads or adding short, encouraging comments to the debate. Elizabeth's expression didn't change during this heated discussion—as it usually didn't—as she glanced around the room, listening to each member's opinion. Arthur sat at his assigned seat next to Cecil who was also nodding along and gazing up at the Queen with a knowing look in his ancient eyes. Though he said nothing, Arthur sat on the edge of his seat for he was mighty interested in where this argument was going.

Walsingham continued: "King Philip was already angered by the assistance the English people offered to the Dutch rebels and with all the privateering that Sir Francis Drake lead against his armadas,[4] but now he believes the execution of Mary Stuart to be the final straw. He and his henchmen shall be here on our shores any day now."

Arthur's shoulders stiffened as his head snapped towards Elizabeth. Her face failed to change or crumble under the mention of her name—he should have expected it as he's always been a little envious of her ability to remain emotionless when discussing business. It's been several months since the death of her dear cousin, but he knew that she still wasn't over it, despite how controlled she appeared to be now.

She thought before she spoke. "Do you propose we declare war on Spain, Sir Walsingham?"

He shook his head. "We're already in an unspoken war with the Spanish and Philip hasn't formally said anything about it yet. No sense in blurting it out if it's not necessary."

"If we declare war, Spain's allies may join in on the fight and then we'd have a bigger issue on our hands," Cecil pointed out. He glanced at Arthur. "I'm sorry to say the obvious, but England is a very small country compared to Spain. Our wealth isn't as grand as theirs and we have more enemies than we do friends. If or when we attack Spain, we shouldn't say anything outright if the advantage is not in our hands."

Even though Cecil was only stating facts, Arthur felt rather annoyed and a little embarrassed at just how low and risky his current position as a country was.

"At least the English people are loyal to the kingdom," Arthur replied, aiming to the rest of the room rather than directly at Cecil, "unlike the French or Russians who are constantly killing each other or the Italians and Belgians who are totally submissive to the Spanish."

"I agree," Elizabeth jumped in. "I can easily put all my faith into my people, knowing that they won't surrender or allow themselves to be crushed by an outside force, even if it happens to be Spain. And besides, we've been told countless times that Philip's army has been coming for many years—what makes you think they are really coming this time?"

"Philip has wanted to make England another Spanish satellite ever since Your Majesty took control of the throne," Bacon insisted. "His determination and efforts to accomplish that grows stronger with every little shove England gave back over the years. This great armada he promises, I fear, will be among us soon."

"Should we speak with their ambassadors or personification before carrying out any form of warfare?" suggested one council member.

"I believe we're pass the point of peaceful terms."

"Perhaps the English navy should attack near the Spanish coast."

"What good will that do? They'll blow us out of the bloody water before we even get close."

"England's navy should meet Spain's whenever they are spotted approaching English waters," came Cecil's quiet yet firm voice. Almost everyone's input died down instantly for they knew that this wrinkly, old man was one of the Queen's favorites and that she'd definitely want to hear his opinion on things.

"I completely understand Your Majesty's hesitation in organizing an attack at all—we've been receiving Spanish threats for so long that at this point it is dare I say nearly laughable. But I do agree with Sir Walsingham; the execution of Mary Stuart may have angered him. After all, Mary did share the same religion of Catholicism with Philip and, as we discovered from her letters to Anthony Babington, she planned to overthrow Your Majesty and then make this country Catholic once again." He glanced around the room. "I believe it's safe to assume that Philip wishes to do the same thing."

The courtroom remained silent as recollections of England's many religious dilemmas played through their minds like one of Emperor Nero's dreadful recitals.[5] Then they lifted their gazes toward their queen whose head was turned toward the small, capsule-shaped window on the far right. With her face away from his, Arthur couldn't see what sort of thoughts were running through her brain; he couldn't see if her fingers drumming against the desk in annoyance or if she was chewing on her bottom lip in anxiousness. So, he was forced to wait and watch for her response with the rest of the weary men around them and he simply couldn't stand it.

"Your orders, Your Majesty?" he asked into the quiet.

At first, nothing stirred or answered him; only a few council members exchanged impatient glances with one another. But she eventually faced them with such a deadly look in her gaze that Arthur swore he caught Walsingham flinch out of the corner of his eye. This look didn't twist up her facial features nor made her hands curl into tight, trembling fists, yet anger and fortitude shined brightly in her eyes. The atmosphere changed significantly like the roll of thunderous skies conquering the warm spring day. Elizabeth lingered in the powerfully intimidating aura that spawned from her and then shattered the silence with a low but all the more crucial tone.

"If it's a fight that Philip wants, then it's a fight he'll get," she muttered through her teeth. "Only I shall rule this country, no matter what any Catholic has to say about it. We'll send our own armada and catch those bastards before the sun sets on their first day at sea. We'll employ only our best soldiers with Lord Arthur Kirkland as captain and Sir Francis Drake as second-in-command. Start raising funds to build our navy and our ships now, and I expect my men to keep a constant eye for any Spanish vessel and to report back rapidly with any sort of concerning activities."

She scanned through the many shocked faces of her Privy Council members, lifting her gable as she did so. "It has been said, so it must be done—you are dismissed," she commanded before smacking the gable upon the desk and then exiting the room, all in a graceful swiftness.

Arthur was admittingly disappointed that Elizabeth didn't stay to see the subtle yet satisfied grins and the raised chins and the many assuring nods that the council members gave him as if to say _All is well; your people will remain Protestant and free._ (Not that he needed the encouragement, but he wished she could see how his expression was the same as theirs, to see how proud he was of her.)

When he spoke with her later that day, he could tell that she still had some doubts about her decisions, specifically about him being captain of the navy.

"Honestly?" he deadpanned. "After all that tiresome bickering you're still hesitate of my military skills? The only concern you should have is choosing the second-in-command. But fear not—I know at least a dozen men that could easily swap with that imprudent pirate."

"I'm not replacing Drake, no matter what you have to say about it. He's an excellent naval navigator and I trust his judgements." She paused, peering sadly into his eyes. "And I'm not replacing you either. I know you are the best fighter I've got, and I know I should've let you go to battle a long time ago. I just…don't like it."

His shoulders slumped as a quiet sigh drifted from his lips. He lifted her hands with his own and then placed a firm yet comforting kiss upon her knuckles. They locked gazes once more.

"Ease your nerves as much as possible, my love," he said. "I am aware that nothing I say will change your mind, but I promise that all will be well. It's like you said: the English people are loyal to you and will defend your crown by all means necessary. And besides, glory and fame are only temperamental possessions; sooner or later Spain's empire shall fall just like Persia, Rome, and other countries before him."

Elizabeth raised an eyebrow. "We can't entirely destroy Spain's kingdom in a single encounter."

"There's a first time for everything."

She chuckled. "First attempts during battle would be most unwise."

"Clearly you haven't seen my militia strategies."

"Yes, I have, and it's nothing like that! You plan everything much ahead of time and are very particular about many things."

"Only when attacking the French army, love. I want to make sure that they are greatly intimidated and frustrated the entire time."

"What a cold heart you have!" Elizabeth snorted, muffling the sound behind her hands as she hunched over with the weight of her own laughter.

He grinned at her. He was glad to have made his dear wife smile and laugh and help her forget that he now had leave her behind and risk everything in order to push back one of the biggest empires since Rome.

 _9 August 1588_

Reports had come in from English soldiers stating that they spotted Spanish ships slowly making their way from the direction of the Netherlands up towards England, straying away from French borders. They presumed that the Spanish were either circling around Scotland and Ireland in order to avoid the English Channel where they had difficulties maneuvering against its unpredictable winds and troublesome currents. Arthur had known this when he, Drake, and hundreds of Englishmen had battled the Spanish near Flanders, a city the Spanish owned but what the Netherlands was trying to fight for. This encounter—the Battle of Gravelines—had a huge impact on the Spanish side; not only did Arthur and his men managed to take down at least five Spanish ships, but they killed many Spaniards and left the breathing ones starving and exhausted. To presume that they were circumventing Flanders or the English Channel in general just to avoid the same thing from happening again would be valid.

But setting Scotland or Ireland as a resting place or a destination was probably not what they were doing. London was much closer meaning invasion of the capital was within Antonio's grasp.

Arthur had been at sea, fighting Antonio and his men, for a little over a month now. All the preparations in the previous year was seemingly well worth it as the English were outweighing the Spanish in victories. All the money that went into building ships and improving weapons and recruiting men was paying off which fueled the determination and fighting spirit within Arthur. Seeing the livid expression on Antonio's face made him want to push more, to fire another round of bullets. Knowing that "little England" was slowly beating down the great Spanish Empire made him grin wildly and run a little faster.

Yet the longer he stayed at sea, the heavier his homesickness got. He wanted to see his home again—his precious Lizzie—as he hadn't seen her once since he left in late June. Sometimes he'd peek at a locket he took with him that contained a miniature of his wife whenever he was alone in his private lodgings. He'd run a thumb over the painting as thoughts of her floated about his mind like the white puffy clouds overhead. So when he heard the news that Her Majesty was coming to West Tilbury to discuss military intelligences and give a speech she prepared to her soldiers, his heart swelled up in excitement and desire.

He now sat upon a large boulder near the shore, watching his men set sail for their upcoming campaign. He told himself repeatedly to keep his eyes fixed on them instead of constantly glancing over his shoulder for the messenger-boy to show up and inform him of Elizabeth's presence. Naturally, he couldn't follow his own advice; he huffed and frowned at himself once he saw the same green fields and the same uniformed men behind him.

"Lost something, Captain?"

Arthur whirled toward the voice and then groaned lowly when he recognized it to be Francis Drake. He stood about two meters from the boulder with his fists on his hips and a smirk on his lips. His longsword was sheathed by his side and his captain's uniform was buttoned up and tucked in (although Arthur knew that once all royals were out of sight and they were sailing away toward the open sea, he would rip off his blood-colored jacket, roll up the sleeves of his loose linen shirt and then dirty his hands with some unnecessary job).

"No," Arthur mumbled, redoing the gold buttons on his jacket cuffs for the hundredth time that day. "I'm waiting for Her Majesty to arrive so we can discuss our progress thus far."

"That anxious to speak of politics?" He chuckled. "I say we keep on progressing like how we are now and soon enough we'll drown all those Spanish bastards. Ah, and let's take their empire while we're at it."

He unintentionally glared at Drake. "Nothing is as simple as you make it out to be. Why must you turn everything into some sort of game or childish competition?"

He shrugged, obviously not offended by Arthur's impatience. "Makes it feel more like an adventure than a war, does it not? We must keep life entertaining somehow."

Arthur closed his eyes. _That is something only a pirate would say,_ he thought.

Drake laughed loudly which caused Arthur to wonder if he said that out loud as well. "Well, it's quite sad to say, but I'm afraid that Lord England, the immortal being of this very country, doesn't know how to have _fun_."

"I'm over a thousand years old—of course I know how to have fun. It's just your preferred form of entertainment is dangerous and _illegal_."

"My statement still stands; I haven't even seen you play a card game!"

"That's because card games are not dangerous nor illegal."

"Most of the time, no. You're right. But there was one particular incident where I was playing a game of Glückshaus[6] with these two Irish lads and the losing one had a dagger up his sleeve. Good God, did that boy have a temper on him…"

Arthur opened his eyes and stared at the ships ahead once more, now completely ignoring the story Drake was telling him animatedly. Elizabeth was very particular about money and only spent it when she had to, so the navy was able to afford the labor that it took to construct these large and rather impressive ships (though they weren't as nearly as remarkable as Antonio's ships since the grinning bastard had more of everything than Arthur did). But he did fully appreciate the long, narrow ships in front of him with the large white sails flapping slightly in the light breeze and the flag of St. George's cross—or his country's flag—being hooked on to the several wooden poles scattered about the ships. His crew were strolling about and preparing for their voyage that would set sail in a few hours; they adjusted their armor, sharpened their swords, and carried cargo onto the vessels. Some were even practicing their combat skills out among the fields.

He secured his wide, black hat as a small gust pushed against him, his white feather waving after it as if the feather and the wind were long lost friends.[7] His jaw twitched in annoyance and he was about to release it in a sharp retort in hopes of silencing Drake when the sound of heavy boots and dangling metals ganged up from behind them. He glanced over his shoulder just in time to see a young solider—no older than seventeen, Arthur presumed—stumble to a stop a few meters from them, a little out of breath with a determined look on his face.

"Captain!" the boy called. "The Qu—" He stopped himself as if he just remembered something important. He then, instead of saluting, quickly bowed to Arthur and Drake like how one would to a nobleman (neither of them corrected the boy, however).

He snapped back into place and then resumed his message. "Captain Kirkland! The Queen has arrived and requests your presence near the marshes."

Without a word, Arthur got up from the boulder and marched toward his new destination with Drake and the youngling trailing after him. He heard Drake make some sarcastic comment and the soldier answer in a hesitant and puzzled tone, but naturally he didn't listen to their needless chatter for the eagerness pounding against his eardrums was much too loud and the desperation in his legs made them move swiftly and surely; he couldn't eavesdrop even if he wanted to.

He followed the sight of men clustering around something hidden (presumably Elizabeth). A tall white stallion stood in the midst of the crowd, dressed in shining armor along its neck, back, and long face. It nodded its head in a frightened manner—more than likely due to all the bodies gathering around it—and tried backing away, but some unseen hand tugged lightly on its black and silver reins and then lowered its face downwards as if to whisper some sweet nothings to calm the animal down. The dozens of soldiers either muttered inaudible questions or statements while others merely gaped at what stood before them. They were obviously confused about something (one may think they were _astounded_ at this sight).

Arthur began nudging through his crew, mumbling "Pardon" and "Excuse me" as he went. Most were snapped out of this strange spell and began making way for him and Drake. When Arthur eventually made it to the other side, he stopped abruptly in his tracks and then fell into the same shocked trance as his men.

At first sight, he seriously thought that he was staring at a short man with head to toe battle armor on, but the feminine features and long red hair was a dead giveaway that this short man was in fact Elizabeth Tudor. She was dressed in iron plates with a few jeweled designs outlining the breastplate, reminding Arthur of something he had worn in battle some hundred years ago. Her hair was set loose excluding a few simple braids here and there. No sword or sort of weapon hung on her hip like a typical uniformed solider, but instead a metal pole with England's flag strapped to the top, fluttering in the wind. The only woman-like appearance she had was her mother's face; everything else resembled a man, a warrior.[8]

When he burst out from the tight crowd, Elizabeth's gaze turned to him. She held her breath and smiled slightly at him. Both could feel how much the other wanted to run into their arms and squeeze the life out of them, to never let them go and to remember what it felt like to hold them again, but their heads came before their hearts. They've already kept their love a secret for more than thirty years now, and they couldn't break it in front of everyone just because they've been apart for some weeks. Even an unnecessary step forward could raise a few eyebrows. So, yes, they kept their distance, but they never did take their eyes off one another.

He was the first to break their silence, though his tone was low and a little breathless like he just ran a thousand kilometers. "Y-Your Majesty?"

She blinked slowly, still smiling. "Yes, Captain Kirkland?"

He swallowed and tried to regain his breath. "You look…different."

A soft chuckle. "Yes, I suppose that's true. Perhaps that is why every man in this marsh is staring at me."

At that, almost every solider switched their gaze to the clear sky or to the muddy ground; a few even turned to the nearest companion and talked as though nothing happened. Elizabeth smirked and then glimpsed at the messenger boy a few meters away. "Thank you dearly, Mr. Addington, for fetching my captain for me."

"Y-Yes, Your Majesty!" Arthur heard the boy stutter. "Ah, I mean, it—it was my pleasure, my Queen."

He bowed again and this time his metal helmet fell off his head and clattered to the floor. He scooped it up nervously and adjusted it firmly back on his curly-haired head.

She then glanced at Drake who stood behind Arthur. "Good to see you again, Sir Drake."

"And may I say it is _very_ nice to see you again, Your Majesty. Very nice indeed. Lord Kirkland here is right: you do appear different from your usual self. I dare say that every man's jaw has dropped open upon your sight." He laughed and Arthur had to resist the urge to punch him in the throat.

She laughed along with him. "Yes, well, can you ever so kindly inform your men to assemble by the shores? I have a speech prepared before you all take your leave."

Drake bowed slightly with a grin behind his wispy beard. "As you wish, my Queen."

He turned and shouted into the crowd, "Go on, men! You heard her! Get your asses to the shores!"

Every man—save for Arthur—hurried away toward the ships, their armor clanking, their feet stomping. They remained silent for a little while, waiting for all ears to be out of hearing distance. Once they were, Elizabeth looked back up at Arthur.

"I've missed you terribly," she whispered.

He exhaled. "I've missed—"

"And my, I don't believe I've ever seen you in naval attire."

He blinked, muddled. "I'm sorry?"

She grinned mischievously as her brown eyes scanned him up and down. "I do wish I could've sooner. What a handsome fit for you."

An embarrassing blush overcame his features; he felt his ears heat up and he lowered his head in hopes that the wide brim of his hat would cover his face. "Honestly? At a time like this? I will never understand your sense in things."

"Oh, don't blame me! Your refusal to smile more often is immature and that seemingly permanent frown is not exactly a desirable trait, darling. I never would've thought it would take a feather in your hat and a few leather belts to make you physically more attractive." She lifted the brim a bit to peek at his red face. "Don't hide your face now. I haven't seen you in ages."

He frowned deeper than usual. "Well, what about you? Why are you wearing full battle armor? I thought you were a man at first."

She threw her head back and laughed, bubbles of amusement rising in the air like the bubbles in a glass of wine. "Well! I can say that my plan officially worked. I dressed this way to become the same as my men, my soldiers. They'll relate and believe in me more if I act the same as them. No sweaty, beaten-down man will fully listen to a woman in a golden ballgown. I want to let them know that I will fight beside them, no matter how dangerous the mission is."

He too scanned her from head to foot. "Hm."

It was now her time to frown. "Hm? Is that all you have to say for yourself? I put much thought into this, you know."

He cleared his throat and straightened up. "Bloody brilliant idea if I do say so myself. Claim your female virginity to the continent but claim to be a man to your soldiers. No reason for misperception there."

Elizabeth beamed once more. "I also missed your lousy sense of humor," she murmured.

He smiled back. "I've missed your smile more than anything. It's the only thing makes me excited to come back home."

She blushed slightly at his words, but didn't try to hide it away like he did. Her eyes flicked over his shoulder and then landed back on him; her smile faltered somewhat but it didn't disappear entirely.

"I must make my speech."

His smile tightened as well as a massive knot began to form in the pit of his stomach. He just met her and now he had to leave her again? There was no embrace, no kiss, not even a simple squeeze of the hand. Only a few words were all they could have before Arthur left once again and return God knows when. He'd only have that miniature in his locket and the imagine of her smile in his mind.

Nevertheless, he breathed deeply and nodded his head once, forcing himself to smile again. "Alright. I'll round up the troops."

He slowly walked backwards, watching her as she stared back at him, gripping her horse's reigns and her flag tightly. He saw her next words hanging from her lips like honey before she actually moved them.

 _I love you,_ she mouthed. _And I miss you._

His own lips twitched and then curved up into his crooked smile that he knew she loved. _I love you too. I'll come back soon._

Her white teeth shone brightly in the dim sunlight and then bit on her bottom lip in great hope. She mounted her steed and raised St. Patrick's cross high in the air just as Arthur turned and jogged toward his crew.

"I know I have the body of a weak and feeble woman, but I have the heart and stomach of a king, and a king of England, too."[9]

Every soldier might have feared for his life as he stepped onto the English ship that sat patiently on the Thames. He might've lost his breath, huddled into himself, or even cried to the heavens "Why me?" He might have even wished he were already dead before he had to behold the terrible sight of the Spanish running toward him with blood-stained swords and fully loaded guns.

But now, as Arthur looked around him, the fear had subsided. In some cases, it was completely gone. They all gazed at their queen with the utmost respect and amazement as she proudly claimed that she too would die fighting for their country. The light reflected off her armor and, with England's flag raised high above her head, she looked simply everlasting. The sensation of authority and bravery she carried deeply touched each soldier's heart and made him feel like he could take on the Spanish Armada by himself—and then some more.

At the conclusion of her speech, Elizabeth thrust her flag into the sky once again and let out a bone-trembling, heart-lifting, and overall powerful scream just like a lion's roar. It rippled through the crowd like a waterfall and they screamed with her, throwing their weapons, hats, and voices into the air. This overpowering sense of enthusiasm and strength helped pulsed more life through Arthur's immortal veins, making him feel more alive than ever before. He smiled and laughed and shouted with them, unable to control himself. Nothing could stop him, nothing could stop them, and nothing could certainly stop her.

As the English Armada floated down the Thames, Arthur spotted Elizabeth's tiny figure raise a hand in parting. He did the same.

 _I'll come back soon._

* * *

[1] Fun fact: Elizabeth kept in shape all her life, hunting and riding whenever she could and she always kept a well-balanced diet. Even when she neared to seventy years old, her servants have reported that she'd spend hours outside, riding horses in fast speeds. Another fun fact: In Elizabeth's time (actually for a very long time), being extremely pale and a little chubby was highly attractive—this meant you were rich and ate a lot of food and stayed indoors while your servants worked outside. Elizabeth, though very pale thanks to the help she got from wearing lead-based makeup all the time, was naturally smaller, having a thin collarbone and tiny arms and hands. She was somewhat conscious of this and whenever she'd have to stand for a portrait, she would stuff her mouth with rags to make her slim cheeks seem fuller.

[2] The Babington Plot was the event that would seal Mary's doomed fate. Anthony Babington was a devout Catholic that wanted to overthrow Elizabeth and replace her with Mary; his plan began when he became a page boy to Paulet around 1585 while Mary was still imprisoned at Staffordshire. He wrote letters to Mary, informing her of all the English Catholics he was gathering to help break her out of prison and assassinate Elizabeth. Little did they know that Walsingham, being the profound spy and loyal council member he was, was reading these letters as well and knew of the plot, but he felt like he needed proof to convince Elizabeth that they would save themselves so much trouble if they executed Mary as Elizabeth never wanted her dead in the first place. When Babington asked Mary in his letters to have her permission to kill Elizabeth and Mary agreed, Walsingham got what he needed and immediately reported it to Elizabeth. Babington was executed in 1586 and Mary put on trial in October of that year; she pleaded that she had nothing to do with the plot, but the letters were too strong an evidence to turn down. Elizabeth would put off signing her death warrant for several months until she reluctantly did on 1 February 1587.

[3] The death of Mary Stuart would haunt Elizabeth for the rest of her days. It is said that she wept and spoke her name whilst on her deathbed many years later. Even though she never really met her in person, she loved her dearly and was afraid she'd be condemned to hell when she allowed Mary's execution. (PS! Did you guys know that America and the United Kingdom are producing a film on this subject? _Mary, Queen of Scots_ will be coming out in early December in America and mid-January in the United Kingdom—it stars Saoirse Ronan as Mary and Margot Robbie as Elizabeth. Won't it be fun when Hollywood screws up the history and has Mary and Elizabeth meeting face-to-face [I'm betting that's gonna happen] and then you can turn to your movie buddy, smile annoyingly, and say "Did you know that never happened?")

[4] For a while, Elizabeth encouraged privateering the Spanish while on their trips to the Americas or off to the Netherlands to steal their stuff and tear up their ships with almost all missions lead by Francis Drake. Because of this, King Philip ended up wasting a lot of money in order to rebuild his ships and having them lost to Drake continuously; his plan for the invasion of England got put off for several years until the summer of 1588.

[5] Emperor Nero of Ancient Rome would force people to sit through many of his hours-long concerts; nobody was allowed to leave for any reason. There were accounts of women giving birth during the concerts and men faking their own death just so they could be carried out and wouldn't have to be there anymore. (Now THAT is desperation.)

[6] A medieval gambling boardgame (it's German for "House of Fortune"). Gambling and card games were huge in the middle ages; people of all social statuses could play these games and the focus of almost every card game was probability, strategy, and wit. Gambling had been banned in the past due to so many people losing a lot of money and, with the losers often under a fiery temper, getting injured or even killed in the process.

[7]Fun fact: Feathers in caps were not only stylish during the time, but they also resembled safety and good luck while traveling at sea.

[8] There are many speculations about what Elizabeth wore during her famous speech at Tilbury—did she wear one of her big, beautiful ballgowns like she did most of the time or did she wear a full set of armor to match her own soldiers? There are written records of her wearing both and no one is 100% sure of what she did wear. But I like to think that she did wear armor because she was great at propaganda and making herself appear as this eternal and powerful goddess that nearly every English person thought she was.

[9] The speech that Elizabeth gave to her troops at Tilbury turned out to be her most famous speech. She obviously had a talent for language and could easily motivate her soldiers to fight and defend their country from the overwhelming powerful Spanish empire. Several versions of this speech is collected and historians aren't completely sure which one (or which order) she used.


	19. Blood in the Water

****This chapter took FOREVER and a day (terribly sorry for the wait), but it's the Spanish Armada, the highlight of Elizabeth's career and arguably one of the best English military victories of all time, so I had to get this right. Although I did have to dramatize some of the actual fighting so it may seem a bit more pirate-y than what the naval forces actually did (they just stayed in their boats and fired at one another until someone's boat burst into flames and I thought that would make a boring chapter thus I spiced things up a bit).**

 **Nevertheless, enjoy and happy new year!****

 _21 August 1588_

For now, the sea was calm, thoughtful. Its blue waves lapped lightly against the warship—appropriately named _Elizabeth_ —which kept the boat rocking on a steady, rhythmic method. Salt hung in the air like invisible smoke and a group of gulls could be spotted flying toward the rising sun. The sky looked like the gates of heaven with its skinny clouds stretching outwards like open hands and all the oranges, pinks, and yellows merging together like a watercolor painting. The soft crashing of the waves and the low creaking of the ship were the only sounds to be heard.

The view was gorgeous, but Arthur knew better. This was the calm before the storm.

With his elbows on the edge of the ship and his chin in his palm, he watched the sun wake up to another day, allowing himself to admire this pleasant trap without actually falling in. He was already in full militia attire despite the few wakeful men stirring around the deck that were only dressed in old linen shirts, linen trousers, and knee-high black boots (every other man was asleep in his bunker). Perhaps it was only him (for he knew that the other personifications of the British Isles did _not_ do this), but he believed that a successful captain or general should always be fully dressed in front of his men—to demand respect, to be prepared for any given situation, and even to cause a little fear in them—and so here he was with a hat on his messy head and plates of iron strapped to his shoulders and forearms. He even had a longsword sheathed by his side and was debating if he should go back to his own bunker to get his gun.

He sighed through his nose as he turned around and watched more soldiers enter the deck, some still sleepy, some fully conscious and ready to fight the day. Most were in uniform and began checking sails and cargo for any disturbances. If they caught sight of Arthur watching them, they would salute his way and simply say "Captain" in greetings. He'd nod his head in return. Some even walked up to him and asked when they should spot the Spanish.

"Around midday," Arthur replied nonchalantly as he pulled out a map from his inner coat pocket. He unfolded it, studying the lines and arrows he sketched out earlier to determinate their whereabouts and the location that they were to surprise the Spanish in a few hours' time. His eyes grazed over the large, white and red sails, focusing on the curves and folds in the fabric to figure out which way the small breeze blew. It came from the east, he concluded, and it wasn't strong enough to push them in the wrong direction—all according to plan.

He stuffed his map back into his pocket as the apprehensive soldiers marched off to work which included inventory count of weapons and food and other supplies. Arthur was about to head for his private lodgings to collect a firearm he left behind when the ship suddenly lurched to the side; he luckily grabbed a hold onto the wooden railing of the ship before falling forward.

Some soldiers did the same as he—took hold of a nearby and sturdy object to steady themselves—but others were not as lucky; they slipped onto their knees or into each other as surprised grunts and the clatter of barrels rang throughout the ship. Arthur's gaze snapped toward the helm located on the upper deck at the back of the vessel. He could make out the figure and the feathered cap of Captain Drake spinning the wheel and barking orders at soldiers. Grinding his teeth together, Arthur hurried over in wide, immediate strides (some of the men flinched away from his heavy boot that was close to stomping on their foot or hand).

He climbed the steps—two at a time—to the upper deck just as three sailors came rushing down, assigned missions present in their concentrated expressions. He stormed over to Drake and, before he was by his side, called out to him, "What the hell do you think you're doing?"

Drake tossed his head back toward Arthur's voice and then grinned broadly like a child being caught doing something he know he not ought to. "Ah, Captain Kirkland! Good thing you're here! Could you go and inform the crew that plans have changed and to ready themselves for battle? We will reach Guzmán and his pitiful bastards in a little over an hour's time."[1]

"No, you fucking idiot!" He planted his feet in front of the helm with a deep scowl on his face, one that he couldn't feel nor shape himself. Behind Drake's dark messy hair, he noticed all the other English vessels follow suit: though some were a bit slower, a bit more careful than others, they sharply turned to his right out of hesitant confusion and unconditional commitment.

He jabbed a thumb behind him like a knife and retorted, "Flanders is southeast of here which is where the Spanish are sailing from. If we continue going south, we'll intersect with them by noon. You're screwing up the navigation and the enemy is nearly upon us! Turn the ship around, Drake."

"Don't act like you can't sense it, Kirkland." Drake gave a blunt stare, keeping his grip tight on the wheel's wooden knobs. "The shift in the air? That small push of wind coming from the east? Feels like they're bringing a storm along with them. If we head north while taking advantage of this gust, not only will we travel faster but we will be one step ahead of our own plan. Once we have engaged the Spanish, we can make a quick getaway by using the last bit of wind before it conjures up another storm. The wankers know next to nothing about navigation; their precious armada will turn to utter rubbish when we reach London again."

"So, you're saying that we should stray away from the original plan just because you _think_ a storm's approaching? We can't take such a risk when we're so far in the fight. How can you put all your faith into a _breeze_?"

Drake—now annoyed that Arthur was questioning his navigation abilities—frowned deeply, his wispy beard drooping as he did so. He then leaned forward while keeping a levelled eye with him; his grip on the wheel hardened, causing the muscles in his arms to bulge. A short but intense moment passed between the two stubborn men before Drake muttered a bitter response:

"I thought you were better than this, 'Captain Kirkland'. Can you not sense the wind shifting? Can you honestly not sense the storm's presence lurking behind us? What's the use of living hundreds of years if you can't even face a little danger?" He drew back, glaring down at him. "I have no care for who you are; don't get in my way."

A knot constricted in the pit of Arthur's stomach and his teeth were clenched so tightly together that he had to remind himself to release them before something in his mouth broke. Drake eased into a playful smirk almost instantaneously, pretending as though nothing happened between them which only angered him more—he freed the grip on his molars and, when he did, a shaky exhale escaped from him like the low and threatening groan of a ruined fortress about to tip over.

Drake glanced to his left and then called out in a tall and imposing voice, "You there! Yes, you young lad! Come here!"

Arthur's head didn't turn away from Drake—his eyes were narrowed to slits, zoomed in on that condescending grin of his—but he caught from the corner of his gaze the same boy who acted as messenger for Elizabeth some days ago; he could see a mildly worried expression on his face as he looked up at Drake.

"Yes, Captain?"

"What's your name, lad?"

"Addington, Captain. Thomas Addington."

"How old are you, Mr. Addington?"

"Seventeen, Captain."

"Tell me, why are you here?"

The boy scrunched his eyebrows together. "I'm sorry?"

"Why are you here? What are you fighting for, Mr. Addington, that is so worth your efforts, time, and—overall—life?"

"Stop this nonsense, Drake," Arthur hissed, crossing his arms. He glared at young Addington. "Don't answer that."

"Is it for Her Majesty?" Drake prompted. "Or perhaps for the country as a population? Fighting for the thrill of it is also an acceptable reason."

"Drake, I swear I'll—"

"Actually, it's none of those reasons."

Addington spread out his palms in uneasiness when both Drake and Arthur peered at him at the same time. "But I am very much in debt to Her Majesty, the Queen of England and to the country itself too," he sputtered frantically. He, realizing what he said, jolted toward Arthur and added quickly, "As well as the country _himself_! I meant to say that, I swear!"

Arthur said nothing and Drake guffawed annoyingly. "No need for that, Mr. Addington," Drake commented. "Not many souls are aware of our country's personification, so don't fret over—"

"I'm fighting for my betrothed."

Drake's mouth finally stopped running for a moment, processing Addington's words like they were a part of some complicated puzzle that needed to be solved. Arthur remained silent, not hearing the boy's answer. _Nothing is ever going to be accomplished here,_ he grumbled to himself. _Everything will sink, everything will go to hell._

Addington pursed his thin lips and then fixed his gaze upon the wooden floor beneath them. "Well, she'll be my betrothed once I return to my village," he mumbled to the ground. "Her family didn't approve my proposal—they stated their beliefs of my weakness and my ignorance, believing I was unsuitable to be their daughter's husband. I asked if there was anything I could do to help change their minds. They said that if I survived the Spanish invasion, then clearly God believes that I am worth considering about." He looked up at them, his face the deep shade of a round cherry. "That is why I'm here."

Arthur continued to study the boy's red face intently, aware of his body shriveling in embarrassment under his glare but the natural pointed look refused to cease, making Addington all the more uncomfortable. He made no comment still, for there were too many thoughts running through his mind and they were moving much too fast for him to pick one and blurt it out accordingly. Nevertheless, he understood and, in a strange way, related to the boy's reasoning—it was now a matter of worthiness for young Addington.

Beside him, Drake exhaled lowly. "Of course it's a woman," he muttered under his breath. Arthur's eyebrows wrinkled in both irritation and confusion at his chosen remark. _Doesn't he have a wife?_ he pondered.

Before he had the chance to direct the question at the stubborn pirate, Drake straightened his spine and cleared his throat, stating loudly, "Well, obviously, that little chat didn't go the way I expected it to, but it'll do." He cracked another grin. "You wish to be home as soon as possible, do you not, Mr. Addington?"

The boy nodded his head rapidly. "Yes, Captain."

"And you'd do anything to get there quicker, is that correct?"

"Yes, Captain."

"Then go on and tell the rest of the crew to ready themselves for battle—we shall meet with Guzmán and his crew soon enough. Oh, and do sound a single cannon as a message for the other ships to do the same thing."

Addington saluted to Drake—his gesture was still loose and wobbly—and gave a final, "Yes, Captain!" before hurrying away as if Guzmán himself were present.

"And you."

Arthur lifted his glare toward Drake. Something small and round came flying at him; he easily caught the object in his hands and then peered down into them. It was a golden magnetic compass.

"Watch that little hand work with the sea and the sky," Drake said, his tone now calm, rational. "Listening to little things just might change your mind." He smirked. "Even the strong, prideful fools."

He frowned some more. He wanted to say something sarcastic or degrading—anything to somehow push this slow-burning fire inside his gut over to Drake's—but he knew that this persistent son of a bitch had set himself up to have the last laugh, so he merely watched the compass point its shaky black hand at his chest, telling him to travel north.[2] He closed its lid, tossed it back toward Drake, and then stated bluntly, "I still want to slice your neck open."

The blast of a cannon ripped through the sky and the distant shouts and rummaging of men could be heard from the other ships.

Drake chuckled lowly, glimpsing at the calm blue above. "You're certainly not the first person to tell me that." A pause. "And most certainly not the last person either."

About an hour and a half later, the waves became restless and the heavens were draining of color (just like what Drake predicted). The ships had distanced themselves from one another and every man was on the lookout for any foreign vessel. No rain or powerful gusts added to the already-intense situation; the smell of salt was strong and the eerie silence was enough to make any sailor as stiff and alert as a preying lion.

Wide-eyed, they watched the sea with guns in their hands and swords by their side. They were waiting, the hardest and most frightening thing of it all.

Arthur's eyes, once fixed on the cool grey sky, now fell upon the vacant horizon, searching for a brewing storm, a Spanish flag— _anything_ besides the emptiness before them. A warm breeze pushed against him and he tightly secured his hat on his head, the large white feather brushing over his cheekbone. He heaved a sigh and glowered at Drake beside him.

"I must point out what a wonderful job you have done," he said sarcastically. "You've completely wasted our time and managed to put the entire population of London in peril. Her Majesty thought it couldn't be done under your command, but I always believed you could achieve such stupidity."

Drake had an eye peering through a long, shiny telescope, the only colorful object in this uneasy grey world (Arthur presumed it was a stolen good that he took while he was on a special expedition to annoy the Spanish). He noticed the twitch of his bearded jaw.

"Good Lord," he muttered. "And I thought I was impatient." He lowered the golden telescope and then leered back at Arthur, giving him the same mocking glare. "I didn't say we'd find the wankers immediately, but there's no doubt they're near—such terrible sailors they are!"

"But will it be worth being swept away and losing as much as the Spanish? To lose all the supplies, men, and dignity we have?" Another short draft flew by; Arthur could faintly feel the feather lean back in response, the tips tickling the nape of his neck.

"We shan't be—"

"Look, over yonder! I see them!"

Drake and Arthur snapped towards a sailor on their right—he had his long, muddy brown hair pulled back into a tight ponytail and was planted by the edge of the ship, his eyes locked on something in the far distance. Several men crowded around him to get a better look while Drake peered through his telescope once more and Arthur marched to the railing from his place on the upper deck. His vision narrowed in on the bleak horizon and, sure enough, there were the pale silhouettes of at least a dozen vessels slowly making their way toward the English. As he watched, more and more of them began to emerge from beyond, mere shadows turning into the grand armada that King Philip had promised. The fleet was fewer than what Arthur remembered from their last encounter, but there were still much more Spanish than there were English. He saw their flags move with the wind, the red X appearing like daggers in the folds.

He tried looking for Antonio, but the vessels were too far away to spot any details.

Among the murmurs of realization and alarm, a loud voice called out, "Should we attack, Captain Kirkland?"

Without looking back, he answered, "Not yet—the enemy is too far back. Ready the cannons and wait for my signal."

Men rumbled around the ship as Drake threw out more orders: "Close up the foresails! Fill up on gunpowder! Get into your stations!" The other English ships copied what _Elizabeth_ did—they spread themselves further out, rolled up their sails, and ran all around the decks, preparing for all the blood that would soon be spilt.

As their ships slowed down, waiting for the Spanish to come to them, Arthur kept his eyes trained on the grand armada, still as a marble statue. The busy sounds surrounding him became mute and only the crossing waves and rushing winds reached his eardrums. His fingers clutched and unclutched themselves absentmindedly. Something within him tightened and he reflected on it:

 _This is it,_ he thought. _This is the very last push and then Antonio's fleet will crumble. He'll limp back to his king, bruised and bloodied, and beg him not to send him here ever again. He'll rue getting involved with English affairs and his empire will suffer because of it. This is the beginning of his end; I know it, I feel it._

These thoughts made the tightness in his chest release whatever nervousness or doubt he might've felt and he breathed out easement and purpose. _I'll make sure that he'll never come near my borders, my people, or my queen ever again._

With that, his right hand shot up into the air, palm flat, elbow bent. By this time most of his soldiers had either gone below deck and were loading the cannons or were kneeling by the arm of the ship with their guns propped upon it. Drake was now standing in the amidships (rather boldly, may he add) with his hand also up in the air, waiting for Arthur's permission to attack. It was strange, he thought, that they bickered and fought with each other nonstop while drifting at sea (or on land for that matter), but they somehow contained enough trust in one another to believe that the other man knew what they were doing.

"Hold your fire!" Arthur shouted.

A foreboding hush fell over the armed sailors, as did the rest of the vessels around them. The Spanish Armada was closer now; their daunting sails and livid passengers loomed over them just like the concerning grey clouds overhead. Arthur studied their faces—some were bandaged, some were swollen, but nearly all were beaten to exhaustion and dripped with fury. His gaze flew down the row of angry Spaniards until it caught the one he'd been hunting for.

Captain Antonio Fernández Carriedo.

His fiery features were already aimed straight at him as if he spotted him long before Arthur did. His wide black hat shielded half of his face, but Arthur could point out that dangerous scowl and those piercing eyes which seemed sharper than any other sword out there. He could also see a thick scar that ran from his temple down to his chin—it was in the process of healing and it was the only injury he possessed (from what he could see anyhow). His physical condition was in much better shape than the rest of his crew; one of the few privileges of being a personification was having the ability to heal bodily wounds at rapid speeds. Antonio's soldiers may have taken the pounding, but it was clear that he carried all the hate and scorn for them in those blazing green eyes of his, all of which was pointed directly at him.

Arthur wondered if this was the first time that he'd seen Antonio furious. _If so, then I have already accomplished the impossible._

The Spanish eventually slowed down and they came within a hundred meters of the English. Nothing happened at first; they all stared at one another, waiting for the other one to make the first move. Silence echoed around them, much louder than the wind and the waves which were growing more careless by the minute. Arthur heard some of his men whisper their confusion amongst themselves: "What's happening?" "Why aren't we shooting?" "Silence, you fool!" This intense muteness lingered for some time; one could hear the drop of a pin.

Antonio and Arthur continued to scowl at one another, each constructing a plan to murder the other. Though he'd never admit it aloud, Arthur thought the Spaniard's death-glare to be unexpectedly intimidating. Antonio was a naturally optimistic person and he'd never been too keen on using violence as an answer, but now there was so much loath and bloodshed in his eyes that he appeared like a completely different man. Yes, he had seen him annoyed and impatient in the past (especially in the recent past), but those were mere pouts compared to his expression now.

Arthur let out a long, shaky breath. He reminded himself of Antonio's king and how he was constantly trying to find ways to overthrow Elizabeth and replace her with his own Spanish ass. The remembrance fueled his anger and he bared his teeth like a preying wolf, thirsting for blood.

Just as the reminder embedded itself into his motivation, Arthur caught Antonio's mouth open wide and his lips form the Spanish word that he'd been waiting for: "Fuego!"[3]

Arthur swiftly sliced his hand through the air, screaming "Fire!" as he did so. Drake echoed the order to the men on the gun deck and, a moment later, the explosion of several cannons erupted, destroying the nerve-racking silence. The other English vessels completed the same action.

It was hard to tell who shot first, but it was apparent whose cannon hit first. The bowsprit of Antonio's ship was blown to smithereens and many other Spanish vessels were damaged in some way. Though they did strike a few ships, the Spanish cannons were much slower than English cannons—the impact they made wasn't great and some didn't even come in contact with a ship and would smite the water instead.[4]

Strong gusts made their presence again, causing cannonballs to lose their aim and the ships to turn away. Drake took this as his cue and rushed toward the nearest cluster of ropes, tugging at them like a madman. "Open all sails!" he yelled at some nearby sailors. "Let the winds guide us through the chaos!" His eyes caught Arthur's. "Follow them!"

Arthur gave a curt nod; he looked back at Antonio, but realized he was nowhere in sight. His target became lost among the bustling Spaniards and waving flags and firing cannons. He gritted his teeth, grabbing a hold of the wheel and jerking it to the side.

 _You're not getting away from me that easily._

With the push of the gales, the vessel lurched forward, speeding toward the Spanish Armada. A cannonball flew over the main deck—Drake and two other men dropped to the floor in order to avoid it. As they drew nearer, both parties began using their guns, the sound just as loud as the cannons. In all honesty, Arthur _hated_ using guns. It was a load of work to activate them and there was a fifty percent chance of actually hitting one's mark—the useless thing could easily blind a man without any logical explanation. Personally, he'd rather run in with a dull knife than risk losing an eye on his own account.[5]

Nevertheless, guns exploded and men screamed, the battlefield finally taking its place. The cannons and guns shattered the ground like fireworks while curses filled the air, both in English and Spanish. The slowly brewing storm kept up with the colliding ships and blood now mixed in with the smell of salt. Arthur breathed in and out like a bull as he drove the ship through the gaps of the Spanish vessels as if he were travelling through a tall garden maze. He kept his eyes out for Antonio's messy head of hair, but he quickly grew angrier when he failed to spot him.

 _You can't hide from me! You have nowhere to run!_

"Kirkland!"

He snapped toward the voice. "What!"

Drake smirked at Arthur's bared teeth and sharp glare. "Why don't you go and bother that archnemesis of yours while I look after the vessel? I'll lead the rest of the ships through and you'll cause more mischief with the Spanish—we'll be in our respectable positions and keep out of each other's way. Surely you appreciate this suggestion, do you not?"

As he spoke, Arthur noticed a large fire behind Drake on a Spanish ship. Its crew members were ignoring it and grabbing whatever they could before boarding onto a nearby English ship via grappling hook or smaller boats. The Englishmen threw their guns over their backs and switched to their longswords; they sawed through the rope and swung at the intruders with such ferocious battle-cries that they could've shook mountains.

"Don't get us lost," he muttered, backing away from the wheel as he adjusted his hat again.

"Always have to have the last laugh, don't you?" Drake gripped the knobs of the wheel like they were the last bottles of wine in an empty cellar. With a wide grin on his face, he moved the mechanism side to side. _Elizabeth_ cut through the water with ease—she squeezed through the spaces between Spanish vessels so smoothly and swiftly which would not have been possible without the persistent wind and, grudgingly, Drake's natural ability for navigation.

He risked a glance at Arthur. "What do you plan to do?"

His eyes skimmed the scene. "I'm going to find Carriedo and slice his neck open. If their country's personification falls, then so will they. They'll retreat to Spain and take with them a message, a warning that whoever dares to force their way into English affairs will suffer the consequences. The remaining soldiers will tell Philip all about them."

Drake hesitated at the violent intentions and dangerously calm tone that poured from Arthur's mouth like honey. He eventually cleared his throat and said, "Right, well, don't go too far and protect _Elizabeth_ at all costs—she's our main vessel and carries most of our cargo. She can't go down."

He rolled his eyes at the request as if he just mentioned that the ocean was blue. "Thank you for the obvious advice," he muttered as he unleashed his broadsword, sprinting after the Spaniards that were now invading the ship.

They swarmed in like moths to a flame; Arthur wondered if they were acting upon their captain's orders, Antonio's orders (based on that threatening glare he gave him earlier, he wouldn't be surprised if he told them all to attack the one ship that oh-so-dreadful Englishman stood on, making things just as personal as he was). Nevertheless, he ran forth and drowned himself in blood, sweat, and tears.

His sword clashed against another's, catching it before it fell upon an English soldier's head. He shoved the weapon to the side and then beheaded the Spaniard with two quick strikes to the neck. As his lifeless body collapsed like a pile of ashes, Arthur spotted a large hook dug into the arm of the ship and hurried toward it. He didn't peer over the side until after he cut off the rope to which he saw two terrified souls fall to the sea below, its hungry waves swallowing them and their rowboat whole. He then whirled toward the sound of angry battle-cries coming right at him—two more Spaniards made themselves present, weapons raised above their heads, lips curled back in fury.

Arthur sneered and pointed his own sword at his upcoming opponents. The Spaniard with a bushy beard approached first; he went to slice his throat, but Arthur easily dodged the attack and came back with a deep stab to the abdomen (the tip of his weapon stuck out near his tailbone). Moaning in pain, he stumbled forward and then fell back once he received a blow to the jaw by the butt of Arthur's sword. The second challenger—a robust man with a giant purple bruise over his right eye—kicked Arthur in the stomach with such momentum that the affect left him breathless. His lower back was rammed into the wooden railing behind him as the Spanish soldier hovered over him with a dagger in his meaty hand. He aimed to drive it into Arthur's thin neck, but he quickly grabbed his wrist and halted the motion. He then tried to use the broadsword in his other hand in any sort of way; this particular soldier, however, was just as swift as he. His free hand gripped Arthur's wrist and began squeezing so hard that he could've easily broken it. With a pained grunt, Arthur reluctantly dropped the blade.

The two struggled to complete their mission of killing the other. The Spaniard leaned forward, putting all his strength into the dagger as it slowly inched toward Arthur's throat. Arthur squirmed and pushed back as far as he could, but he had little effect with the trapped position he was in. His gaze narrowed in on the Spaniard's sharp glare, on that large welt that seemed to be growing by the second.

"Muere, maldito protestante,"[6] he hissed through clenched teeth.

Arthur sneered back and replied, "Lo siento, me temo que no puedo hacer eso."[7]

Just as the words passed his cracked lips, something bashed against the side of the Spaniard's head twice before dropping to the floor, unconscious; Arthur went down as well. He sat up quickly, took the dagger from his opponent's motionless fingers, and then pointed it at the man above him.

He blinked in recognition. "Addington?"

The young soldier, with his gun clutched tightly in both hands, looked down at him with wide eyes and curved lips as if he were an amateur that had just taken out his first target (which was probably the truth). He pursed his lips to suppress his own proud smile and stretched out a palm toward him. "Are you alright, Captain Kir—"

His inquiry was cut off by the echo of a gunshot and the sudden blast of red. Addington hit the ground with a hard _thud_ as Arthur's eyes followed after him, shocked and maybe a little desperate. They absorbed the blood flowing down the side of his face and the gaping hole that tore through his right cheekbone. He noticed the tiny chunks of pink brain spewed across the deck as well as small tufts of curly blond hair. Addington's body twitched once, twice, and then went still.

Arthur was only given a fleeting moment to recall how this young lad had a fiancée waiting for him back home before he saw an enemy dash his way, yelling like a madman. He scrambled for his sword off to the side; he swung it viciously once his fingers grasped the golden handle. The blade sliced through the man's stomach and, like a caged pig, his intestines spilled out onto the floor. Much of his blood splattered all over Arthur's uniform and what must've been his liver landed on his knee. He rolled out of the way before the rest of him collapsed.

Sticking his new dagger in his belt and wiping some blood off his chin and neck, Arthur picked both himself and his sword up and peered at the center of action once again. Spanish and English soldiers were slaying one another in all sorts of ways: gunfire, blades, bare hands. Both were hopping from one ship to the other using grappling hooks and spare rowboats. He spotted one Spanish ship (he wasn't sure if it was the same one from earlier) that was engulfed in flames and sinking slowly into the grey waters. Amongst the chaos, it appeared that the English were winning.

His eyes flicked back to the groaning Spaniard at his feet. He was struggling to shove his guts back inside of him, shuddering and gasping heavily. It was plainly obvious that this man was in indescribable pain and it would be the humane thing to do and put him out of his misery with a stab or a kick to the head. Yet his gaze caught the bloody pulp that was Addington's head, causing Arthur's nose to scrunch up and walk away from the slowly dying man.

He fought for God knows how long—time always went too fast for him in the middle of battle. All he knew was that his arms were sore, dead Spaniards littered the decks, and Antonio was still nowhere to be found. _This isn't over until I'm finished with him,_ he growled to himself, looking around him wildly for that curly-haired cunt. His legs pumped forward as he tried to get a better view of his surroundings. Then he heard a distant "Incoming!" and the whistling of the wind as something large and something fast came plummeting their way.

The ship rocked back suddenly as another ship rammed into them, sending men and supplies tumbling. Arthur stumbled and tried to regain his balance, but an unseen barrel slammed itself against his hipbone and pushed him over, black gunpowder spilling from it. The back of his head hit against an iron doorknob and he landed in the open threshold of some room—Drake's and his quarters, most likely.

He groaned (mostly from embarrassment rather than pain) and rubbed the back of his head, not believing that he just fell over due to a _bloody barrel._ He dusted off some of the gunpowder on his chest and then moved to stand back up. An unexpected and strong tug on the back of his collar threw him back, however, and into the room he mistakenly opened.

Another grunt passed his cracked and bleeding lips as he was thrown to the ground as if he weighted nothing more than a rag doll. He stared up at the perpetrator who was closing the door behind him. He realized it was Antonio before he turned to face him.

That enraged expression was still on his face; his moss green eyes bore into him, striking at his pride with the suddenness of lightning. His lips were drawn back in a snarl like a rabid dog and Arthur was highly aware of the blood-stained halberd gripped tightly in his right hand. His deep green and gold trimmed jacket and golden jewelry that hung from his neck or encircled his fingers showed off his wealth and mightiness and Arthur took note of how much Antonio had grown in muscle since the last time he saw him in person. He had a flashback to the Roman conquest of Britannia when he was a small boy and a very small country. He remembered Allister, battered and broken, hiding him behind his back as he tried to defend him with every last breath he had from the great and mighty Romeo Gilbavares, from the dreaded Roman Empire. His eyes observed the tall and powerful personification, at his shiny armor and sharp weapons, at the way the sun seemed to circle him like he was the center of the universe. What radiance, what power. He didn't know what he was: a man, a god, or a devil.[8]

Antonio's aura reminded him of Rome's and, for a moment, he felt like that same little boy once again, small and helpless.

"Tu pequeña mierda,"[9] he hissed. He raised his halberd in the air and then roared, "You think you can defeat me!"

The battle-axe came down faster than he expected, but Arthur luckily jumped out of the way before it came in contact with him. The blade, instead of burrowing into his skull, became lodged in the floorboards. He scrambled to his feet and looked around them, now fully registering that they were in his quarters. Antonio ripped the weapon out of the ground with hardly any effort, keeping his gaze locked on Arthur. He reached for his broadsword, but with great dismay, realized that it was not in its sheath—he must've dropped it when that barrel knocked him over.

"You are a complete and utter fool to think you can strike me down!" Antonio screamed, hatred and power coursing through his veins as he went to slash at Arthur again.

He ducked and heard the wind screech by his ear. Another swipe, another miss. He stepped back and took out the dagger from his belt and waited for Antonio's next move. His chances against him were slim to none but, despite being short on weapons and feeling unbelievably cautious about every step he made, he knew he couldn't give up. He wouldn't give up.

Antonio cleared his path to Arthur by swinging his battle-axe like a pendulum; the blade smashed through a round table which caused dozens of letters and maps to fly up in the air as if they were birds fleeing from some unknown danger. He ranted angrily as he did this: "I've conquered worlds and destroyed empires and you think you can just push me to the side like I mean nothing?[10] I am the most powerful country on the planet and I refuse to lose to a pathetic nation like you. You are dirt, you are nothing!"

Once he was close enough, Arthur charged in and aimed his knife at Antonio's side, but he should've known he'd be too quick for him—Antonio's fist crushed his nose and his leg swept under his feet, knocking him over. His head banged against the uneven floorboards once again and his vision began blurring in and out; somehow he stayed awake and still contained enough strength to carry on.

He saw Antonio's axe come down at him, so he quickly turned his body away, bumping into Antonio's boots. As the blade once more plummeted into the floor and got wedged inside, only a few inches from his disheveled hair, Arthur took the opportunity and stabbed Antonio's calf with his own blade. He groaned in agony as he twisted the dagger deep into his flesh, Spanish blood oozing from the wound and trickling over his fingers. Antonio's hard leather boot then bashed into Arthur's nose and this time a sharp pain and a cracking sound followed. Arthur, covering his face, moaned and staggered to his feet as Antonio yanked the dagger out of his leg and tossed it to the side.

Both men stood still for a moment, catching their breaths. Arthur peeked down at himself, at all the blood he was covered in—he felt his own blood seep from his now broken nose and he watched several drops hit his black boots. He heard Antonio chuckle and his head jerked up to look at him, the corner of his eyes nothing but black fuzziness.

"Look at you," he sneered, grinning. "Drenched in the blood of Spaniards and Englishmen. That's how it all started, you know, my empire. The Inquisition made my people strong, grow more confident by the day. Blood had to be spilled in order to achieve total perfection."

Arthur spat some blood to the side and then glared at him. "You didn't want the Inquisition."

"But it had to be done and I see that now. Catholicism had to be finalized in my own country before giving it to others. And then it was the proposal of exploration, of travelling to other worlds while spreading my religion and culture. That Columbus man was full of grand ideas and increased my enthusiasm for exploration with such philosophies.[11] And so I assisted with almost all expeditions to the New World. So much lies within the palm of my hand; I've never felt such supremacy before, such influence." Hesitation. "This must've what Rome felt like."

The smile faded from his face and was replaced with a scowl. "And you're threatening to take it away from me and keep it to yourself."

Arthur glowered some more, hissing through his teeth, "I don't want your fucking empire. I want you out of here."

"You can't have it! I've achieved too much just to lose it all to the most pitiful country in the Continent."

"You're completely mad. All that power is getting into your head and it's making you enslave and crush everything in your path which is exactly what Rome did." He wiped some blood off his mouth. "Now either you and your sorry excuse of a king leave my people alone or I will have no choice but to kill you all."

Antonio laughed an unexpected and loud kind of laugh. He wrenched his halberd out of the floor and pointed it at Arthur, small pieces of wood landing around him. "Sorry excuse of a king? Must I remind you that he helped me got to where I stand now? It's true that I haven't seen him smile or enjoy himself with life's little pleasures, but at least my monarch isn't a filthy whore."

A knot suddenly formed in Arthur's stomach, a knot so tight and so stiff that it physically hurt him. A look of disgust and horror crossed his features and he felt a new flow of blood exit his nose, sliding into his mouth and onto his tongue. That horrid word bounced around in his head and he staggered a bit at the pain it caused him.

"What did you just say?" he whispered.

Antonio grinned again. "I've heard the rumors. They're sprinkling all around Europe, but I suppose no one has had the guts to tell them to your face. Your queen, a beautiful lady I must admit, has proclaimed herself a virgin since she was given the crown. But she's also a liar, isn't she? All those marriage proposals can't go with a simple no—I hear she's slept with all of the men who asked for her hand from a duke in France to another duke in Austria to the king himself in Sweden.[12] What a black widow she is, seducing men and then throwing back to whence they came. The apple doesn't fall too far from the tree, does it not? Some days I do feel pity for the royal bastard—"

Arthur lunged at Antonio, the knot in his stomach snapping and releasing a new and different form of wrath from within. Antonio fell against a wall with Arthur's hands around his throat, attempting to squeeze the life out of him. The sudden grasp surprised him, but it did not hold him down. He slammed a fist against Arthur's already broken nose again and more blood exploded from the injury. He held on, however, pressing his thumbs onto his Adam's apple while Antonio kept on hammering at his face; he only let go when he was sure he didn't even have a nose anymore.

He stepped away, his own blood smeared around his nose, lips, and cheeks as if he were a lion that just ate the flesh of its prey. Antonio coughed and tried to regain the strength in his lungs, but he was still quick on his feet—he wielded his axe with ease and began slicing at the air in Arthur's direction. He avoided a few of his swings, but the boiling fury inside him didn't want to play defense—he wanted to kill him.

Eventually, his fingers found a hold on the handle along with Antonio's. The two struggled to gain control of the weapon for a while, pushing and pulling, spitting and kicking. With a sly grin, Antonio threw back his head and then slammed his forehead onto Arthur's. It was as if he had just threw a sharp rock at his head and he stumbled back again, wincing at the ache. He shook his head and squeezed his eyes shut for a brief moment, but still kept his attention on Antonio who was chuckling at him now.

Arthur found an opening near Antonio's left side and went for it; Antonio, of course, saw it coming and swung his weapon his way. Arthur tried to duck once again, but this time he wasn't as swift. The axe buried itself deep into his left shoulder blade and Arthur staggered under the weight and pain thrown onto him. Only his breath hitched; no other sound escaped him.

Antonio's hands ripped the halberd out of Arthur's back and he could feel new blood flow down his spine. His knees gave way and fell to the ground; he stared at his bloodied hands for a moment and tried to think pass his angered mind, to come up with a rational plan which was hard to do when he couldn't help but to take everything Antonio said personally. Ignoring the pain in his shoulder and the numbness in his arm, he quickly grabbed a nearby wooden chair and flung it up at Antonio, roaring in escalating rage. As expected, Antonio's axe came in perfect contact with the chair, smashing it into several large pieces. Arthur used Antonio's temporary blindness to his full advantage and seized the dagger he had stabbed Antonio with earlier. He rose from his crumpled spot on the floor and then rushed at the Spaniard through the falling wooden shards. He knew Antonio saw him coming, but it was too late now.

With all his might, Arthur whipped the weapon across and the next thing he knew, blood was squirting in his face and Antonio's green eyes widened as his hands clawed at his neck, a deep gash apparent.

He collapsed to the floor while blood continued to spurt from his throat like a fountain, his deeply tanned hands now soaked in red. Horrible choking sounds came out of him and his body turned from side to side as if he were trying to get away from the pain. Arthur knew it was safe for him to catch his breath and so he did just that. He leaned his good shoulder against the wall and panted heavy breaths like an exhausted dog, watching Antonio struggle. With his free hand, he reached up and gently poked the spot where the same axe had hit him earlier. There was a good-size dent in his flesh, he could tell, but it pained him to even carefully feel around it, so he decided to leave it alone for now. He didn't even bother with his misshapen nose; he knew that was a lost cause.

A low chuckle rumbled in his throat. "She's going to have a fit when she sees me," he muttered to himself—his voice was deep and husky, aching for fresh air and relaxed bones.

Amidst his pain, Antonio peeked up at him. "Y-You're the m-mad one." Blood spurted from his mouth as he whimpered.

Arthur's glare pierced at him once more, watching the fear in his eyes, something he hadn't seen yet today. "Should I care to repeat your earlier monologue? Perhaps your memory is draining along with all that blood."

One speechless moment passed between them and Arthur made sure to stretch out the dread and frustration floating within it as he slowly put his dagger inside his coat pocket. Though it pained him to shift his weight around, he sped forward and grasped the dropped halberd and raised it high above his head. Antonio managed to choke out a squeak as the axe's blade slammed into the floorboards right beside his damp curls. Arthur hung over him with his lips curled back in a deadly sneer and his eyes flashing with everlasting rage, sweat and blood dripping from his torn skin.

"If you even think about coming anywhere near my queen again, I will hunt you down and gut you like a fish," he snarled in a voice that was not his—it was low and throaty and vibrated deep within his chest. Caught up in the terror inside Antonio's eyes, he watched him squirm and shiver under his stare, still holding his neck as if he were a poorly sewn rag doll, his own stuffing bursting at the seams. The blood flow had decreased somewhat and Arthur was surprised that the bastard was still conscious—his eyelids fluttered some and he was having a hard time keeping himself together, so it was only a matter of time before he would pass out from blood loss.

Grabbing his bicep, Arthur muttered "Stand up" as he tugged on his limb. Of course, Antonio didn't obey in any sort of fashion and replied by shrinking into himself as a way of getting away from him as far as possible. With the halberd in his other hand and the weight of bodily pain on his back, Arthur was able to force Antonio to his feet and slowly drag him out of the captain's quarters.

He pushed open the door using Antonio's limp body and quickly surveyed the scene around them. The sky was now a dark grey and thunderclouds were gathering over their heads. Bodies were scattered about the large deck and the sound of cannon-fire and clashing swords could still be heard along with the restless waves below. All Spanish vessels were now on the left which meant that Drake had successfully maneuvered through the maze of ships and was circling them around at a swift pace.

Arthur dragged Antonio toward the center of the deck, among the many dead Spanish sailors. "Slow the vessel!" he shouted into the dying chaos.

The surviving Englishmen of the _Elizabeth_ turned at the sound of their captain's hoarse voice. Their eyes bulged at what they saw thus they readied whatever weapon they had in their hands, prepared to kill Antonio a hundred times over if he tried anything funny. He heard an astounded "Kirkland?" and then shifted toward the forecastle. Along with the completely flabbergasted look on his face, Arthur noticed a thin trickle of red run along Drake's temple and down to his chin.

"Slow the vessel!" he repeated. "I need to speak with Guzmán!"

"Guzmán? I'm unaware of where he is; he could be any—"

"Just do it!"

Drake, for once, didn't argue with him and begrudgingly called out orders to raise or lower the sails. Arthur tried to awkwardly lean against the battle-axe while he kept a firm hold around Antonio's shoulders. His strength was quickly failing him and he didn't know how much longer he could hold onto so much weight. But he had to for just a little bit longer; he had to get his message across.

As _Elizabeth_ slowly moved along the waves, searching for the Spanish second-in-command, other Spanish soldiers halted at what they were doing once they saw who Arthur had in his clutches. Worry, anger, confusion, and shock were only a few of the many expressions he saw flicker across their beat-up faces. They spoke to one another and looked around themselves wildly—they were probably wondering where Guzmán was as well, so Arthur let them do his job by going from soldier to soldier, ship to ship, asking where the duke was.

"You have loyal soldiers," Arthur grunted to Antonio. "That's a rare treasure to have and so much richer than any other gold mine you can find."[13]

He didn't respond. Arthur could feel the Spaniard's might draining much quicker than his own; he was getting heavier and his hands were loosening his grip around his bleeding neck. He was glad that Antonio's physical strength wasn't a problem anymore, but he still wanted to get his point across, to let him know exactly what he has done and of the consequences that would come.

"You see," he continued, "because of your arrogance and failure to fully analyze your enemy, you have lost at your own game. Your great armada has collapsed and therefore so will you. Perhaps this hard lesson and my warning will stick with you the next time your senseless monarch tells you to force yourself into my people's affairs. What a pity it had to be this way."

This time he could vaguely feel Antonio's fingers scratch at his knuckles, a strangled grumble bubbling at his lips. Arthur kicked at Antonio's wounded leg which caused him to moan in pain and wiggle within his grasp. Arthur spitted into his ear, "I will chop your goddamn head off if you annoy me in the slightest and, I'll warn you, my patience is thinner than thread right now. Remember your place, Spain."

Not much more came out of Antonio beside the occasional gasp for breath and the twitch of an arm or leg.

Soon enough, they came upon a ship named _San Martin_ where many Spanish sailors were gathered at the edge of it. They were either eyeing Antonio with uneasy glances or peering at a short man with a wavy mustache and beard. This man wore a broad black hat with a white feather and a green cloak that was similar to Antonio's. This was him, the second-in-command, Captain Guzmán.

Arthur's hazy gaze narrowed at the distant figure, waiting for all gunshots and alarmed conversations to simmer down. There was a moment of high yet hushed anticipation among both parties and it is only emphasized once Guzmán shouts across the way in broken English, "What have you, Englishman?"

He mustered up all the breath that he could from his sagging lungs, stiffened his grip on the halberd and Antonio, and then hollered back in almost perfect Spanish, the concerned aura surrounding Antonio's men growing rapidly with each threatening word he spat:

"All of you are to return to Cádiz and tell King Philip to abandon his plans of invading London and overthrowing Queen Elizabeth, as if the lesson you learnt here today was not enough. Tell him to stay away from all English matters and he will pay dearly if he snubs this warning. My queen will not give up the throne and the English army will destroy anyone who threatens her crown in any way—you all know what happened to Mary Queen of Scots." He motioned at Antonio with the halberd. "Now either you report back to Philip your failures or I will behead your personification and then finish off the rest of you."

At the promise, Guzmán and several other Spanish soldiers visibly tensed up and shook their hands out in front of them, pleading him not to harm Antonio any further. The captain spoke with his men, some worried, others enraged. They argued for a while and Arthur almost didn't catch Antonio's breathy words as he was entirely focused on what Guzmán was saying:

"This i-isn't over."

He peered down at his messy head, catching his dry lips tilting toward the sky, trying to capture some fresh air in this salty atmosphere.

"Not until you're wiped off the map it isn't," Arthur agreed.

Finally Guzmán yelled back in half frustration, half apprehension, "Iremos si nos das Antonio."[14]

"Sí," Arthur replied.

Guzmán gestured for his men to go over and retrieve their personification; they prepared a rowboat and armed themselves with nothing but grappling hooks. English soldiers, however, kept their guns and swords trained on the enemies quickly making their way over. Arthur struggled to hold onto both Antonio and himself, but he dared not to falter now—he had to appear victorious in order to keep the Spanish fear alive.

Three soldiers eventually made it to the edge of the ship (only two of them actually climbed up the ship while the other one stayed in the small rowboat). One of them had a split lip and the other only suffered a few bruises and scratches. They lifted their palms in the air to show that they were weaponless, their eyes big with worry for Antonio's well-being. Arthur noticed them inching forward and he whipped out the battle-axe in their direction; they halted immediately. He glowered at them silently before tossing Antonio to the ground.

The Spaniards rushed to him as they beheld his state with horrified expressions. The two carefully took hold of the bloodless Antonio as he wheezed and twitched like a dying cat. Not another word was exchanged and the English watched the Spanish carry their wounded country away. As soon as Antonio was safely in the rowboat with his crew and began rowing back to their ship, Drake called out to raise the sails again and to let the stormy wind take them away from the battle, away from the bloodied water.

The rest of the English ships followed _Elizabeth_ and left the Spanish in the grey and the blood, not once looking behind them. Nothing was said until they were a far distance from the Spanish and, once they were, cries of triumph and success filled the air. Men threw their weapons to the ground and clapped each other on the back and thanked God above for their victory over the dreaded Spanish. Despite the bodies and brewing storm, they couldn't help feeling total and utter relief to be going back home.

Arthur swayed, his eyes stuck on the blood-stained floorboards. His vision was darkening by the second and he felt extremely warm. He then heard Drake's voice—it was pleased and a bit surprised though it sounded quite a distance away even though he felt Drake's hand slap his shoulder (his good one). "You did it, you old bastard! You scared the hell out of them, some of us too, I admit…" His voice echoed and trailed off to somewhere far and somewhere dark. The cries around him also died off and he felt as though some invisible sun weighed upon him, melting his skin and crimpling his back.

Arthur fell into the darkness, exhausted yet calmed.

* * *

[1] Alonso Pérez de Guzmán, Duke of Medina Sidonia, was the captain of the Spanish Armada that led the expedition to pick up Spanish soldiers in Flanders and invade England. This guy definitely wasn't the best captain in the world as he lacked military experience both on land and at sea, his ignorance on the English enemies or the Spanish war plans, and was even prone to seasickness. It is believed that Phillip II picked him to lead the armada because he was a devout Roman Catholic and he knew Guzmán would follow orders without complaint.

[2] By this period in history, navigation at sea was getting better and better every day. Tools like the compass, hourglass, quadrant, and nautical chart were handy in telling time and latitude coordinates which were more useful than longitude coordinates. It would take a whole team of sailors to work these gadgets to determine where they were. The English had the top-notch materials needed to properly navigate and the best hands at work while the Spanish were quickly losing money and their sailors weren't as well-educated with sea navigation like the English. This could arguably lead to one of the reasons why the Spanish Armada failed so miserably.

[3] Spanish translation: "Fire!"

[4] Another reason why the Spanish Armada was doomed to fail was the use of the long cannon by the English. Because of the extended length of the actual cannon, cannonballs had a greater chance of hitting its target. Anything shorter would cause the cannonball to easily lose its aim once fired and end up going somewhere completely off course.

[5] Good guns wouldn't come until the 18th century. The type of guns that were used in the 15th, 16th, and 17th centuries required you to fill it up with old fashioned gunpowder (which was rendered useless if wet), light up a piece of twine at the end, and try to aim with that thing in your face. More often than not, something would go wrong and the lit gunpowder could explode in your face and could mess up your hands or even blind you. Very rarely did it shoot at its given target.

[6] Spanish translation: "Die, you damn Protestant."

[7] Spanish translation: "I'm so sorry, I'm afraid I can't do that."

[8] The Roman Conquest of Britannia took many years (roughly 40) to take over and they didn't conquer the whole island like what they had planned to. This was due to many reasons like cancelled campaigns because of Rome's many civil wars, poor planning on emperors part (I'm looking at you, Caligula—dude told his men to stab the water and declared war on Poseidon rather than attacking Britain), and the restlessness of Gaul (modern-day France) who hated Rome and didn't appreciate being conquered. Rome only really controlled England while they were in power and never had gotten around to invading Scotland, Ireland, or Wales.

[9] Spanish translation: "You little shit."

[10] The Spanish landed Mexico in 1519 and by 1521, the great Aztec Empire falls into their hands which had ruled for almost 200 years.

[11] Christopher Columbus went from country to country, asking for their monarchs to pay him to go sailing across the Atlantic Ocean. Isabella I of Castile supplied him with Spanish ships and men and they first sailed off in 1492 and discovered Central America, South America, and the Caribbean. Many more Spanish explorations and settlements were established after Columbus's death in 1506.

[12] Such rumors did circulate around Elizabeth and historians still questioning if she really was a virgin or not to this day. Elizabeth did hear about these rumors (no one told them to her face, but word did travel quickly in the castle) and she didn't verify nor decline them, but just let them go. Either she kind of liked the drama people were making up about her, despite it being good or bad, or she thought the rumors were so beneath her that she didn't want to waste her time addressing them (she was a busy lady).

[13] After the Spanish had claimed Peru and destroyed the Incan Empire and killed their emperor Atahualpa, they found piles and piles of gold in the Huancavelica cave in 1545—in today's money, all of that gold would cost over a trillion in American dollars and almost 800 billion in British pounds.

[14] Spanish translation: "We will go if you give us Antonio."


	20. What Came When She Went

****2019 has been full of unwanted surprises so far which is why it took forever it get this thing done and posted. I could never forget you guys, though, come what may** **Microsoft told me this chapter's 37 pages and I'm telling you it's full of feels so have fun with that.**

 **I'm not sure about getting another chapter done in time so I might as well remind y'all that Holocaust Remembrance Day is May 1 and to stop and think about this very important day and why we have it. I'm taking a Holocaust Literature class in school right now and it's taken a huge toll on me on the way I think about human beings and the morals we have for one another. Let's spread love, not hate—it's so much easier that way.**

 **Also, happy early birthday Queen Liz II. Ninety-freakin-three years, man. Can we just imagine for a moment that countries like England, Scotland, Wales, Northern Ireland, Australia, New Zealand, and the other 13 countries she rules all having to gather around this little shrimp and having to do what she says?**

 **Okay bye****

 _8 January 1603_

It took roughly one fortnight for all of Arthur's injuries to completely heal (which was longer than what he expected) and they arrived at London in only three days' time, so trying to conceal his wounds from Elizabeth's prying eyes would be rendered useless. He remembered seeing her standing on the wooden docks with her ladies-in-waiting, the Privy Council, and several other nobles crowding behind her as the tall ships slowly sailed in. His shoulder bulged under his cloak from the multiple layers of linen wrapped around his limb, his nose was bent oddly and torn and he was having a hard time breathing through it, and he walked with a bit of a limp, yet he couldn't stop his crooked smile from spreading across his face upon sight of his dear Lizzie, despite the apparent worry morphing her features.

When they landed, Arthur hobbled down the deck with Drake by his side (who looked a hell of a lot better than he did). The pair strolled over to the queen and went to bow before her, however, when Arthur wobbly lowered onto one knee and gingerly took her left hand to kiss, Elizabeth pulled her fingers away and instead gently lifted him back up to his feet.

"What has happened to my dear country?" she had asked in a hushed tone, staring at his condition with wide, anxious eyes.

Drake answered for Arthur with a grin on his lips and his fists on his hips: "Though it may not seem like it, absolute victory has bestowed itself upon our nation and cold fear has replaced the once confident hearts of the Spanish." He peeked at Arthur's damaged face. "I believe that's worth all the trouble we'd experienced, yes?"

Although she nodded her head and thanked each soldier who kneeled at her feet for their service, Arthur could still see the horror in her eyes as they constantly flickered back and forth from his scarred face to the corpses being carried off the ships, stained with blood or rashes.[1]

For the next week, Arthur had a very hard time trying to convince Elizabeth that he was alright and could attend to his daily duties. He couldn't complain too much, however, for he always enjoyed her company, even if she continuously fretted over him like a worried mother and only allowed him to move every so often. When physicians came to inspect his injuries (who were starstruck at the rapid speed it took for him to recover), Elizabeth would listen to their advice intently and made sure he took plenty of rest like they had suggested.

"Funny how you listen to my doctors with such focus, but refuse to obey your own," he'd joke with her.

He only received an icy glare from the corner of her vision.

At night, within her chambers (which was starting to become the only time they could be alone together), she'd insist on touching his bare back and would softly trace and kiss the deep gash in his shoulder as if he had the King's Evil.[2] She'd murmur things like "They informed me that you were lucky that the blade didn't take your whole arm off" or "Oh, I can only imagine the great harm that came with this awful wound" but he failed to respond, thanks to her small, slender hands.

God, how he missed them. He reached behind himself, took one of her hands, and brought it to his chest where she could feel the rapid beating of his heart and understand how she made him feel, including the physical pain he endured for her sake.

And, as always, she comprehended what he said without him saying a word. Eventually, she sighed and leaned against his spine. "I am greatly pleased to have you back home, nevertheless. I'm also internally grateful for your sacrifice, hard work, and dedication during this whole Spanish…mess. How selfish I've been, wanting to keep you to myself instead of sending you out in the first place. Perhaps then it wouldn't have ended up this way…"

Unintentionally, she began ranting about business and regrets, something he didn't wish to speak of right now. He curled into himself, clutching her lovely fingers between his cold, rough palms. "It doesn't matter now—it's all in the past. Let us put our thoughts to rest for tomorrow your people will want celebrate your success."

" _Your_ success," she whispered in his ear before sinking into the covers with him.

The people of England were ecstatic to hear the news of their victory over the Spanish Armada. They cheered and danced and laughed and sang. Feasts were held in the palaces, but Elizabeth made sure to make her appearance in London's public boulevards. Citizens came up to the queen with praises of gratitude and admiration; some presented gifts like roses or wine and Elizabeth once asked everyone to quiet down so she could listen to a little girl sing _Jesu Corona Virginum_ in Latin.[3]

This celebration lasted for weeks and Arthur thought it couldn't get any better. As his injuries disappeared, he felt powerful surges of warmth spur within his chest as if he just drank a hot beverage after coming inside from a brutal snowstorm. The feeling would spark up as time strolled on and he wouldn't be in any pain or mood whenever it occurred. He reflected on the flourishing government, the happy citizens, the compromise between Catholics and Protestants. With a smile, he wondered if this was the result of a successful country.[4]

The next fifteen years flew by in a flash; he had been on so many missions in order to improve the lives of the English people. He battled and defeated Spain several times and tamed the nasty rebellions happening in Ireland.[5] He even saw the maps and plans of a settlement brewing in the New World which excited both Arthur and Elizabeth.

"I hope to expand English territories to different lands, far from the rest of the Continent," she told him. "We have the money and the power to do it; why not see what else is out there?[6] Exploration and new discoveries, I believe, are important strategies in progressing further as a country." She patted his hand. "I only wish for the best for you."

He smiled and intertwined their fingers. "I know, and I thank you dearly for it all."

The next thing he knew, Elizabeth grew sick. Very sick.

It came slowly with trifling symptoms: headaches, drowsiness, sore throat. No one thought much about it until she developed trouble with walking and complained of aches and pains. It was then that Arthur began to seriously worry—Elizabeth had _never_ complained about being in pain. When he and other council members suggested that she take a couple days off to rest, the queen predictably said no and only requested for a walking-cane.

And so now here he was, slowly walking beside his queen as they and the Privy Council behind them headed toward the court room.

Her jeweled cane clacked with each step she took and it echoed around the large hall, louder than the mumblings of young men behind her, speaking of that day's political issues. Arthur paid little attention to what they were saying and instead studied Elizabeth in her sixty-nine-year-old skin. The wrinkles in her face and hands were apparent now; no matter how much white makeup she smeared across her features, her blue veins and crinkled skin could still be seen. Her body was thinner and she shrunk over recent years (the top of her fuzzy head used to tickle his nostrils, but now her head could fit into the crook of his neck without her leaning down). But even with this "degradations" in her beauty, she still stood with a straight back (as much as she could anyway), wore elegant gowns, and demanded respect with just a side glance.

It was a little saddening, he believed, that Elizabeth never fully understood that the loveliness she carried, the same loveliness that drew all kinds of men toward her like a siren wasn't in her flesh, but instead in her voice and her mind. She still had a strong grasp on those and Arthur would continue to love her for it, even if her flesh sags and her teeth brake and her spine cripples.

He set a gentle hand over hers, the one that gripped her cane tightly, and the other on her back. "Your Majesty," he said, "watch your step."

Elizabeth stopped and peered down at the uneven floorboard to the court room which was a good four inches shorter from the hall. She let out a chuckle and patted his hand over hers. "Oh, Lord Kirkland," she said in her ancient voice. "Where would I be without you?"

As he helped her lower into the room, he replied, "In all honesty, you'd probably be dead because you can't see that same, damn step every time we come into the court room."

A few of the council members behind him gasped at the offensive joke he uttered, but Elizabeth burst out laughing, throwing her head back and holding her stomach in amusement. "Ah, yes! I've become as blind as bat in my old age. Although it's a good thing that I have young, handsome men like you to keep me on my feet."

He rolled his eyes. "Whatever you say."

Instead of sitting in the place next to where Cecil once sat, Arthur now was seated in the chair closest to the queen—he had become an unofficial "lady-in-waiting" to Elizabeth (as she often joked with him) and assisted her with anything that she may need, whether she asked for it or not. He'd do things like take notes on topics that were discussed that he knew she'd forget later on and correct her if she got names or dates mixed up.

"Lord Blackwood," she'd call out to question before he'd lean forward and whisper "Kinsley" to which she'd quickly reply, "Lord Kinsley, my apologies." _Her nicked memory is a side effect of old age_ is what he told himself everyday whenever she forgot the simplest of things.

The Privy Council, however, wasn't as patient or understanding as Arthur and would often sigh or grumble under their breaths. Elizabeth had outlived nearly all the council members that worked with her for decades—Cecil died five years ago (which broke her heart a little) and when she had to replace his spot with his son, Robert, she realized she was in need of a new and younger Privy Council, one would bring innovative ideas for the country's future. But, as with every generation, these men tended to not fully listen to Elizabeth's words and believed she was stuck in the past, too outdated.

The queen and the Privy Council were frustrated with each other, to say the least.

The meeting didn't accomplish anything, thus everyone left in a foul mood. They all went their separate ways; Elizabeth wanted to walk around the frosty gardens and Arthur offered his elbow which she took with a grateful smile. She didn't dismiss her official ladies-in-waiting, so they followed her slowly, giving them plenty of space. Neither spoke for some time; Arthur glanced down her and noticed how concentrated her expression seemed to be. Her eyebrows were furrowed and her painted lips frowned and her grip on his arm tightened slightly.

He craned his neck toward her. "Are you alright?" he whispered.

She nodded once and answered quietly, "I'm fine." Yet as soon as she said it, she stumbled forward and would've fallen if Arthur wasn't there to catch her. Her walking-cane dropped to the floor as she clutched at her stomach, her face twisted in pain.

Panicking, he held her up as he repeatedly called her name and demanded what was wrong of her. Her verbal reply was silence, but she cradled her stomach as if she were holding some unbearable weight. Her ladies-in-waiting rushed to her side and assisted Arthur in pulling the queen onto her feet again.

"Take her to her chambers," he instructed the young girls who all nodded their heads rapidly as if they already planned on doing just that.

He looked at Elizabeth's huddled form. "I'll go fetch a physician."

There was a look in her eyes that restrained him from dashing off at once. Uncertainty tugged back on his limbs as he studied her desperate stare. Was it because she didn't want any doctors anywhere near her, still denying that she was sick at all, or did she not want him to leave?

This clearly wasn't the time or place to decode her distressed appearance and, sadly, the only suitable response he could give her now was a small squeeze on her wrist and a breathless "I will be back" before running down the hall (what few council members he bumped into figured out what was happening and hurried after him while any remaining members either rushed over to the queen or merely stood in between it all and stated, "The Queen has fallen").

Arthur was lucky to find an available physician within London grounds that would arrive at Richmond Palace by evening. When he did arrive, he examined Elizabeth thoroughly with numerous inquiries and utensils built for prodding. Elizabeth answered his questions solemnly, but Arthur knew she wasn't enjoying this visit one bit with that infamous set frown of hers and her refusal to relax in her own bed. He wasn't going to drop onto his knees in sympathy anytime soon, however—he _needed_ to know what was causing her so much physical suffering and, frankly, her dislike for medical care was one of the last things on his mind.

Once he was finished, he shuffled over to Arthur and Robert and then mumbled to them his findings: "Her Majesty suffers from a high fever and terrible aches all over her body. Her bones are especially weak and her flesh is…concerning."

Arthur's heart dropped a little at that hesitating word while Robert repeated it in a hard tone: "Concerning how?"

"It's as if her skin is shrinking into itself like a dying rose or crumpled leaf. It is so much so that her coronation ring has grown into the flesh." He glanced at the hardwood flooring and said to himself, "Like it is anatomically a part of her."

"What do you suggest should be done?"

"For now, cancel any conferences or meetings that the Queen may have in the next few days and have her get plenty of rest. I shall require some other opinions from other physicians; I'll write to them as soon as possible. It is of the utmost importance that she obeys these orders for her condition is unknown and therefore unpredictable."[7]

After the man exited Elizabeth's chamber, Robert and Arthur turned to one another as the queen's ladies-in-waiting crowded around her, fanning her and peppering her with more questions to which she swatted away as if they were annoying fleas. Robert grumbled under his breath (Arthur was unsure if he was speaking to him or to himself): "All he did was poke her for a few minutes, asked vague questions, and then left. Of course he doesn't know what's wrong with her! He barely stayed for twenty minutes! What a complete cumberground. Let's pray that his colleagues are smarter than he is."

Arthur barely listened to what he was saying and instead stared out a small window behind Robert's wine-colored hair. Snow covered much of the flat ground and surrounding trees; tiny flakes drifted from the ash grey sky. It was peaceful, really. Despite the brutal cold and the thick ice, winter was still lovely.

 _Is this the beginning of the end?_ came the dreadful thought he'd been avoiding. He didn't know why he tried to run away from the fact that eventually Elizabeth would have to go, but he did. He remembered speaking to Father George, the Protestant priest who agreed to wed them, about the oddity of their relationship, how seemingly forbidden it was for an immortal to fall for a breakable human. _But if I can bring happiness and peace to her life here on earth, then nothing else matters. Nothing else will ever matter._

Everything felt a little heavy, but he decided to drag it all anyway. What he said then was true and it was still true now. He could only hope that she lived the life that she wanted to.

"What do you suppose we do?" Robert asked him.

Arthur's eyes slowly dragged from the window to the statesman's steady gaze. He thought before he answered: "Obviously we need to collect as many medical opinions that we can, so we may properly treat the Queen without any deadly consequences, yet her demands are more important that a physician's and we must obey her before we agree to anything else." He sighed heavily. "It'll be better if we can find an official diagnosis."

Robert hesitated, but he nodded his head. "I suppose so. She won't care much for their advice."

"We'll take as much as we're allowed."

Robert pursed his lips and then nodded again, excusing himself from the Queen's presence. Arthur squared his shoulders and sauntered over to the foot of Elizabeth's bed.

"How are you feeling?" he asked her.

No one looked up at him. Elizabeth's eyes stayed glued to the papers in her hands—probably the ones he wrote for her this morning—while her ladies stared straight at her, pupils wide with worry.

"I'm just fine, like I said earlier," Elizabeth mumbled.

"Then what was that in the hallway this morning?"

"A mere stomachache. It's all over now."

"But who's to say it won't come back?" interrupted one of the ladies, Cordell her name was. "What if this is something bigger than we're imagining? Please, Your Majesty, let us help you—"

"I said no."

The low growl silenced Cordell, but it didn't tame her anxious look. Elizabeth huffed and then waved a hand at them. "Let Lord Kirkland and I be. There are some things we need to discuss."

They paused, but eventually the young girls dragged themselves out of the room. Cordell gave the feathered fan to Arthur, a silent way of saying _Take care of her, will you?_ He took it and she closed the door behind them.

"It wasn't your decision to bring a doctor over here, you know," Elizabeth muttered, still reviewing her papers. "Now he'll bring more and an unnecessary chaos will befall on my advisors and staffs."

He examined the swan feathers on the fan as he strolled over to the side of the bed where a cushioned chair was placed. "Do you plan to exile me? Perhaps execute by sword? After all, what I did was such a crime."

She glared at him. "You're not being funny, you're being irritating."

He sat down on the chair and pulled it closer to the bed. "I could say the same thing about you."

"Don't be like the rest of them. I said I feel fine and I don't want any doctors wandering in my palace. These young fools won't listen to their elder Queen and my patience is wearing thin. There are only a few good people left that I can fully trust and you are one of them. So don't fuck yourself over by agreeing with them; I am still your Queen."

Ignoring the bitter and spiteful words she threw at him, Arthur replied calmly, "I told Robert that we'd follow your orders before we follow any doctor's, but it'd still be helpful to know what we're dealing with here."

Her tiny hands curled into fists, the parchment paper crinkling loudly in her grip. "I said no physicians!"

His next response was quiet for he knew that the ladies-in-waiting were right outside the door, perhaps even pressing their ears against the wood to hear them better. "If you won't do it for yourself, then do it for me."

She didn't say anything, but the glare didn't leave her face either, so he added, "We both know that there's something medically wrong with you and if you don't want to fix it, that's fine. But I'd still like to know what the infection or disease is; I don't want you to leave without me knowing what exactly took you."

He knew his confession shocked her, but his eyes dropped to her wrinkly hands before he could catch the shift of expression upon her face. He reached out and lightly drew the papers from her fingers and then set both the notes and the fan on the low table next to him. "If you want to die, then I can't stop you. We saw this coming long before we said 'I do' and nothing can change that now. You're aged and you're lonely; the deaths of your advisors, friends, and family have been slowly breaking you down over the years. I completely understand what you feel and if you wish to go, then I won't hold you back just so you can endure the pain a little while longer." He chuckled humorlessly. "It's just a shame I can't go with you."

A deafening silence overcame them, but it wasn't long before he heard Elizabeth mutter "Dammit" beneath her breath. He looked up and found her face in her hands as if in shame. When she finally glanced back up, he saw the great sorrow in her eyes that told him everything he just said was true.

Another huge weight settled in his heart, but he didn't cry or yell or say anything. He just slowly placed his elbows on the soft covers and lowered his forehead onto his hands, the heaviness in his chest weighing him down. The bed shifted as Elizabeth hovered over him and cupped his head in her hands, placing a careful kiss on the top of his head.

"What have I ever done to deserve such a selfless and caring soul as yours?" she whispered into his hair.

One month dragged by and the winter only grew stronger.

Elizabeth had agreed to answer the questions of some other doctors, but still didn't allow them to touch her. Two other physicians came at the first doctor's request and they pondered over the queen's condition. They, too, were at a lost—no one knew what was wrong with her, therefore they couldn't proceed with any surgeries, medicines, or recommendations. Many tried to get her to eat and sleep, but she turned down most meals and stayed up in the late hours of the night hunched over letters and notes.

Advisors were growing frustrated with her and one day, around a half a dozen of them were crowded in her room, telling her to get some sleep. Purely out of anger, Elizabeth got out of bed by herself and stood in the middle of it all and continued arguing with them. She stood there for hours, rigid with determination to defy the ones that told her no. Her ladies and advisors repeatedly asked her to lay back down, but she naturally did no such thing.

One of the council members eventually shot a glare in Arthur's direction who was seated at the other side of the room, quietly watching it all.

"Are you not going to do anything?" he barked at him.

Arthur simply shrugged his shoulders, his cheek resting on his fist. "No, why?"

"You're one of the few people she actually listens to. Will you tell her to remove herself of her pain and to go get some rest?"

He couldn't help the smirk from spreading across his face. "She doesn't listen to me anymore than she does to you. Also it's very rude of you to speak of the Queen as if she isn't here. Where have your manners gone? Perhaps you abandoned them when you came back from that trip to Scotland some time ago. Such obnoxious people they are."

The man glowered at the comment, but he kept his temper somewhat cool. He looked back at Elizabeth standing before him.

"Well, if you refuse to cure yourself, then let's at least get some business done. You have yet to name a successor for England's sake—do you have someone in mind?"

"That is none of your concern."

"It is exactly my concern! The job of the Privy Council is to advise the queen or king to make certain decisions that are best suited for our country. And if you can't care for yourself or let us assist you, then who are we to advise in the future?"

"Watch your words, Lord Kinsley. And it's—"

"I'm Blackwood."

"Exactly as I said, watch your words. It's of no importance to you—I solely get to make the choice of who the successor will be, and no suitable person has come to my mind."

"Then how about I advise one for you? King James the Fourth of Scotland. Our alliance with him is strong and if we are to choose a royal, it's better to have one from the British Isles than someone else from the continent. He's also the closest to England's royal bloodline."

The council members behind him nodded in agreement.

Elizabeth scowled, causing the creases in her face to deepen. "I will take your advice into consideration, but I won't proceed any further on the subject. For now, that is all you need to know."

Blackwood gritted his teeth as his eyes darted around the room as if he were searching for something else to bicker about. "We wouldn't be stuck in this impossible situation if you just would've married and bore a child right after you received the crown—"

Arthur rolled his eyes and groaned lowly while Elizabeth burst into a frenzy of heated insults. "You empty-headed _prat_! Stop infecting the air with your useless and mind-draining comments! This is why I refused to have a king by my side—he'd think he know better than I and try to plant his foul ideas into my brain, much like Lord Blackwood here."

"I am only looking after the good for our country," he fired back (though not with as much rage as the small, elderly woman standing before him). "It seems to me, however, that Your Majesty hasn't given much thought or care for centuries of tradition. Marriage and pregnancy are, at the very least, _strong_ recommendations for women to accept early in their lives—"

"I am already married! England is my husband—"

"And the people are your children, I'm aware." Blackwood huffed and glanced at the ceiling. "You've been claiming that since you became queen forty-five years ago. You're married to your job and I understand that but—"

"No, you bloody idiot! _Arthur Kirkland is my husband!_ "

Silence never fell so suddenly before, never created such an impact until now. Elizabeth's bared teeth disappeared behind tight lips, her eyes nearly bulging out of her head as the realization of what she said overcame her. Blackwood, Cordell, and the rest of them stared at her, all sort of different expressions fluttering over their faces; some looked at Arthur and then back at her as if requesting for a deeper explanation. Others simply looked confused and didn't even comprehend what just occurred.

"I beg your pardon?" Blackwood said, his intense blue eyes trained on Elizabeth like a hawk.

When the queen covered her mouth with a trembling hand (it shook so hard one would think she was under some sort of spell) and Arthur simply closed his eyes, it was then that people started to question Elizabeth's statement aloud with dumbfounded tones: "She's already married? To Lord Kirkland? When did that happen?" "I knew it! He'd always been a close favorite of hers and they're always seen together." "This is…unbelievable! How can something like this happen? Does anyone else know?"

He could feel Elizabeth's horror-stricken gaze fall on him. He vaguely heard her whisper, "I am so sorry. I didn't mean to say that; I truly didn't. It just…oh my God, what have I done?"

He opened his eyes and found her staring straight at him. One hand was still clamped over her mouth and the other held her stomach—she looked like she was about to vomit. He slowly shook his head and then peered at his pocket watch.

As he stood up, he said to her, "You've been standing in place for nearly ten hours now." Once he spoke, almost everyone in the room halted in speech, movement, and breath, each one paying very close attention to their exchange.

"I think it's time you laid back down," he finished, completely blocking all the fixed stares in his direction.

Elizabeth shook her head as tears welled her eyes. "I'm so sorry," she cried behind her hand. "I'm so terribly sorry. I didn't mean to say it."

"I know, I know you didn't." He walked over to her and she took a few wobbly steps toward him. When he gently held her elbow to motion her back to bed, some of the ladies gasped as if the two just embraced fully. "You're tired and distressed. You should really get some sleep."

She kept shaking her head, kept mumbling. "I'm so sorry. Please forgive me. Oh, how could you ever forgive me? I am so ashamed."

"Don't be; all is forgiven. Everything is alright." But no matter what he said, she didn't believe him. He sighed and tried again: "Elizabeth, please rest yourself."

She suddenly fell into his arms and began sobbing uncontrollably, pleading for forgiveness and expressing her obvious guilt. He held on to her frail, cold body and looked pass the wide, flabbergasted eyes surrounding them. He noticed a few big, red cushions stationed near the corner of the room.

"Cordell," he called without looking at her, "gather all the cushions from Her Majesty's bed and place them on the floor over there."

When he didn't hear any movement and only the heart-wrenching cries of Elizabeth, his eyes snapped toward the young adolescent and he repeated in a loud and threatening tone, "Now, Cordell, before your services are terminated!"

She blinked out of her stunned hex and fear quickly replaced the look in her eyes. All Elizabeth's ladies-in-waiting scurried like frightened rabbits to do as Arthur demanded and spread the soft cushions in a big cluster by the corner of the room. They hopped back as Arthur half-dragged half-carried her to her newly makeshift bed and tried lowering her to the comfy ground, but she wouldn't let him go. Her hands were locked onto the front of his jerkin and he pressed one hand against the wall to keep from toppling over her.

He didn't want to see Elizabeth's tear-streaked face nor the staggered and perhaps disgusted faces of the watchers behind him, so he instead aimed his stare at the window, at the snow-covered fields below them as he spoke rigidly: "Leave. All of you. All of what you heard isn't to leave this room under any circumstances and if those orders are disobeyed, I will deal with you personally."

Slowly, one by one, their audience left and Arthur sat there for the next several hours as Elizabeth continued to weep hysterically in his arms until she eventually cried herself to sleep.

Shortly after she began breathing steady breaths, he carefully removed himself from her hold, observed her sleeping form for a moment, and then slowly exited the bedchamber. He watched his brown boots drag themselves down the hall, knowing where he had to be and what he had to do but not wanting to go through with any of it. After all, did he seriously believe that their secret would die along with Elizabeth? Was he honestly certain that none would even suspect their relationship?

Love, he concluded, strips the mind of logic and then replaces it with wonderous fantasies of everlasting treasures and dreams, but of course, no such world could hide from reality, no matter how many layers of hope surround it.

Yet he didn't feel remorseful about shielding themselves from the world—he felt guilty about not protecting their dreams better.

He heard the voices of the Privy Council long before he reached the courtroom. He stopped outside the open door—such careless men—and listened to their comments: "Could this bring serious harm to England's reputation if we were to tell?"

"Are you a bloody moron? _Of course_ it'll harm our reputation! No foreign political figures will ever take us seriously; not even our own people will respect this—this monstrosity!" A pause. "A small immortal married an even smaller human, a self-proclaimed virgin at that. What disgrace."

"Then why should we tell if that were to be the case? Let's keep the knowledge of this marriage within Richmond for the sake of us all. We'll save ourselves from such an impossible situation."

"We cannot do such a thing!"

"Why not? Do you wish to add to these complications?"

That answer never came because the sound of a door creaking shut announced Arthur's presence. All turned to him; none concealed their disappointment. He stared at an empty chair on the other side of the room, all sorts of defenses and protests running around in his head. His gaze didn't shift, even when Robert Cecil trotted up to him with a puzzled yet concerned look on his face. "Lord Eng—"

"For how long were the rumors present?" he interrupted in a whisper—the question came out with a few scratches and nicks, so he swallowed and cleared his throat, hoping to paste the pieces back together before it all fell apart.

Robert hesitated before answering: "I've been hearing them back when my father was still alive."

"And how far?"

"Well, Spain is obviously aware of the gossip, therefore its satellite countries must know as well. It is to be expected that the other nations we've associated ourselves with—like France, Sweden, and Scotland—would spread the stories even further." Another pause. "I fear that the whole Continent has heard it at some point in time."

"Did you believe in them, Sir Cecil?"

He shifted his weight uncomfortably. "Seeing is believing, my lord, and I failed to see any sort of evidence to support the rumors."

Arthur accepted his response, even if it was ambiguous or a possible lie. He only had enough strength to deliver the message that mattered more than any other argument right now.

"And rumors they will remain." His stare lifted from the chair and then scanned the impatient faces of the dozen council members surrounding him. "My earlier demand still stands: the news of the marriage between Elizabeth and I is to stay within these walls—within this room, to be exact—and this includes any written document that you may have created since then which must be destroyed immediately. These are not only my orders, but Her Majesty's as well."

"You cannot blame us for the Queen exposing a secret that she shouldn't have formed in the first place," grumbled somebody who Arthur couldn't see amongst the bearded men.

He narrowed his gaze. "Pointing out blame is such a childish act: it's for the foolish who wish to remind all that he was never at fault. Thank you for that pointless comment; let's go back to the matter at hand, if we may—"

"Why should we erase such a betrayal from our own queen?" another complained. "She lies when she calls herself a virgin. What reason have we to trust what she says anymore?"

"She never betrayed you. Everything she did was for the sake of this country; she's sacrificed many things for—"

"We shan't destroy our personal documents until our questions are answered! This is too significant of an event to simply forget about, or worse, exterminate."

All at once, the men of the Privy Council began firing inquires at him: "How long have you two been married?" "Were you ever going to inform us of the marriage?" "Is there a child of Kirkland and Tudor blood that we don't know about?" Arthur was quickly overwhelmed by their persistent demands and their tight faces; he felt like Daniel trapped within the lion's den. His fingernails dug into his palms, his teeth sunk into his lower lip—a habit he created to control his temper—but there was no need for it. He wasn't overwhelmed with anger—he was unbearably _heavy,_ as if he were treading through water and getting absolutely nowhere.

Robert finally stepped into the argument, stating loudly and clearly, "Silence yourselves! Tame your rage and let's discuss this like civilized men."

The shouting quieted down, but it didn't ease their distraught expressions. Robert skimmed through the small cluster of men as he spoke: "Though this new piece of knowledge may have left us feeling shocked and confused, we must remember to converse carefully and peacefully, just like how we always have—"

"You're just siding with him," Blackwood protested, jabbing a finger at Arthur.

"I am siding with the Queen!" Robert snapped back. "And the rest of you should as well! We're all here to assist one another whilst serving Her Majesty. Remember that she kept the throne away from any foreign power all throughout her reign, defeated the Spanish Empire time and time again, greatly improved the lives of the English people, and has achieved much more than any man would've expected of her. She _at least_ deserves to explain herself."

Blackwood's response came much later, yet it still possessed that same authoritative tone of a prideful man. "Like I said, our records will not touch the flame until our queries have been given meaning."

Robert peeked at Arthur who was still drowning in emptiness, gaze low, fists tight. "My lord?"

He exhaled shakenly and uncurled his fingers. His stare returned to that unoccupied chair across the way—he started to realize that it served as a resting place between the polished floor and the council's sharp glares. "It's her decision to make," he mumbled.

The next several hours blurred together; Arthur couldn't recall what exactly happened during that time. He and the Privy Council waited in the courtroom for Cordell to notify them of whenever the Queen awoke from her deep slumber. Pacing, writing, and more arguing made up the noise in the background and his small, pale hands resting upon the cherry wooden table was all he saw. He pondered over the circumstances with frowning lips and slumped shoulders:

 _Elizabeth is dying, our secret has been spilt, and everyone has their eyes trained on us. So why do I feel nothing? I want to tell them that they don't know anything, that they don't have the right to judge our rings and the path that we've walked on for so long. I want to be angry, I want to be livid. But I can hardly lift my hands from this table._

It was like when he figured out that he was in love with Elizabeth—he scrutinized his sweaty palms, his pounding heart, his buckling knees and eventually identified them as the side-effects of a love-struck fool. But there was nothing here to pick apart and examine, nothing to explore or throw away in fear of it growing. All that sat was some big, black thing that weighed as much as the moon.

He didn't know what he was feeling exactly—or maybe he didn't want to know.

Bright stars were twinkling in the dark sky when Cordell at last entered the courtroom, her heels softly clicking against the hardwood flooring. "Her Majesty has awoken," she whispered into stone-cold silence. Nearly all rose from their seat and then briskly walked out of the room; Cordell hesitated before moving toward Arthur who was still seated with his head in his hands.

"She only needs you, my lord," he heard her say softly like how a mother would to a child. "I know this because she told me. She doesn't even trust her own ladies to care for her or to stay loyal and courteous, especially with the awareness of her…married life." A short moment of quiet swam by and then Cordell spoke again, this time with a tiny yet noticeable squeak in her voice: "And you need her, too."

He peered up at the girl through his fingers who was obviously trying her best to keep from bursting into tears. What she was particularly upset about he knew not, but he understood that he couldn't afford another troubled heart on his hands and that she was right: he needed her. More than anything.

He sluggishly got up from his seat as Cordell lightly pulled at his elbow, forcing him to become the humble gentleman he was supposed to be and guide her to their destination. With a small sigh, he did just that; though they traveled slowly, Cordell didn't tug on his limb impatiently, but instead let him walk at the pace he was comfortable with.

"You're supposed to be attending to the Queen's care, despite what she may say," he protested weakly.

Cordell peeked at him and then looked straight ahead. "A friend of mine spiraled into a terrible depression once news of her betrothed's death reached her—he died whilst fighting the Spanish Armada fifteen years ago—and she barely possessed enough strength to drag herself out of it. Her poor soul! What horrible grievances she had to endure." She shook her head. "I don't want to witness anyone else struggle through what she had to."

Although his somber expression didn't change, he respected her faithfulness and kind heart.

Elizabeth, still sitting on the floor surrounded by red cushions, had refused to answer any questions given to her by the Privy Council until Arthur arrived (all according to the very hot-headed Lord Blackwood). Her sleepy eyes brightened at the sight of her husband nudging through the small gathering that separated them and then settling in a corner next to her. He ignored the wide stares of his colleagues as his fingers desperately tangled with hers as if simply seeing her breathing, blinking, and talking wasn't enough to convince himself that she was still alive.

It is with his hand in hers and his presence overpowering all the other ones in the room that Elizabeth finally submitted to her own council and supplied them with clarifications regarding her literal marriage with the personification of England.

The men frowned at his wedding band as he went around the room and collected any papers that contained notes on their queen's secret. Despite their apparent disappointment, they stayed true to their word and let him confiscate written records and swallow down the need to exploit said secret.[8] Arthur gestured to the pile in his hands and repeated their agreement before grumbling out "Her Majesty thanks you all for your consideration." (It was true that she told him to utter these words, but he felt like they didn't deserve any sort of attention.)

After that, he threw the papers into the fireplace and silently watched them burn.

For the following month, only Arthur, her ladies-in-waiting, and a few doctors were allowed to visit the dying queen (with the exception of Robert and one other council member to review business with her—she insisted that she was still Queen of England and could manage her duties just fine). Arthur, whose heavy heart still weighed in his chest, tried to make each and every moment as enjoyable as possible for his dear Lizzie, even if it only reminded him of what limited time they had left.

He'd play the violin for her, ranging from slow and lovely melodies like da Milano's _Fantasia_ to sacred and polyphonic songs of dalla Viola (all upon Elizabeth's request, of course). She'd contently watch his fingers fly over the strings and slowly sway to the tunes. Sometimes, if she complained enough, he would dance with her. It wasn't that he didn't want to, but his concern for her fragile bones was so great that he feared she would end up hurting herself (or worse: _he_ could hurt _her_ ) _._ She snorted and waved his excuse away, expressing what great exercise it was and, mainly, how she hated sitting in one place for hours on end. He eventually caved into her childish pleads and pouts, pulled her to her feet, and then spun her around until she felt young again.

He'd also read some of Shakespeare's sonnets and plays to her as well such as _The Chamberlain's Men_ and _Love's Labor's Lost_. He would stress certain phrases and twist his facial features into the reactions the characters expressed much like when he read old fables to her as a child. She laughed and clapped just like how her ten-year-old self did (although he was fairly certain she was laughing at him rather than all the puns that were flying out of his mouth).

But just as there were relaxing and comforting times, there were moments when peace seemed like a faraway land.

Elizabeth still refused to allow her doctors to examine her and so naturally her health declined. They never diagnosed her with anything specific—they suggested some blood infection due to her extreme paleness and weakness and even offered to bleed her[9] to which, of course, she also rejected. She ate hardly anything and sometimes would go for hours without saying a word. She pushed away nearly all signs of comfort; she'd remain emotionless and immobile whenever one of her ladies held her hand and promised her a speedy recovery, yet when he told her of all the people she'd meet again—Kat, Edward, Walsingham, Drake, Cecil—a sharp intake of breath could be heard and a small squeeze tightened her grasp on his fingers as if she were preparing to exit this life right then and there.

She mourned for her cousin's death, little Mary of Scots. Sometimes she'd burst into tears and cry out her name; through thick moans she claimed that she never wanted her dead in the first place, that she was pressured into signing her death warrant. She would even shove Arthur away and blame him as well. " _You_ wanted her dead, not I!" she accused. " _You_ made me kill her!"

He tried to not let her harsh words add to the weight on his back, but at the end of the day, he was starting to relate to poor Atlas and dragged himself around as so.

In the last week of March, Arthur knelt in front of his queen—his wonderful, precious wife—and prayed in Latin under his breath. He clasped his hands together and squeezed his eyes shut, fully concentrated on sending a message to God Almighty. He begged for all suffering, both physical and emotional, to leave Elizabeth's soul and to replace it with tranquility and happy thoughts. He finished by reciting the Lord's Prayer once more and crossing himself before glancing back up.

He found Elizabeth's gaze trained on him with her hands in her lap and her shoulders slumped. There was a sympathetic look in those dark eyes; she probably listened to everything he just uttered.

Frowning, he peered at the silver platter atop the nightstand to his right, filled with untouched food. "Can you try eating something again?" he asked her calmly.

"I'm not hungry." She hesitated. "Why don't you rest for a while? The whites of your eyes are turning red and the skin beneath them is as dark as the night."

"I'm not tired." _Two can play at this game,_ he thought to himself as he sat in his usual spot beside her on the floor. "And besides," he added, "I must keep awake if…you should need anything."

Knowing what he really meant, her eyebrows furrowed and her lips tightened; he felt her stare dig into the side of his face as if _she_ were the one clawing at the lid of _his_ coffin. He fiddled with a loose thread on the end of his sleeve and attempted to change the subject: "You should let Cordell in more often. She's worried sick about you; not only is she a loyal lady-in-waiting, but also a good friend."

The sound of the harsh winter wind roaring outside was his only reply. He tried again: "It would be wise to speak with Robert about—"

"Please don't let my departure be the source of your drowning."

He blinked slowly, staring back at her pleading expression and sickly features. She was so small, so white; it was as if her skin had slipped off and she were nothing more than an old skeleton in heavy robes. Some days it was difficult to believe that this wrinkly, bony, old woman was once a gorgeous young lady that every man fought over for.

Arthur surprised them both by letting out a low, humorless chuckle. He didn't know what caused it (stress relief, perhaps?) but he couldn't help thinking how absurd and meaningless her request was.

"What then?" he demanded, his tone equally as deep and somber as his laughter. "Do you want me to act as though your death means nothing? Dare I celebrate it as a birth in the afterlife? Am I not allowed to mourn—?"

"You're allowed to mourn," she interrupted, "but you mustn't cry for long." Her voice was no higher than a hoarse whisper and nothing intimidating nor authoritative forced him into submission, yet he was silenced immediately. "I don't want you to sink in your own tears."

"How do you expect me to suppress the agony I feel when all you speak about is your own passing? And quite fondly too, may I add."

"Yet you respected my decision to not fight it back."

"Yes, I reminisce that scene often and I still understand your reasoning for wanting to end it all, but…but how could—"

"Do you also reminisce about what you told that priest long ago? About what would become of you when our time stops ticking?"

"I remember _everything_ , Elizabeth. Every single, little thing."

She hesitated and then took a deep breath. She reached out a wobbly hand and brushed away some tears rolling down his cheek, something he didn't even realize was there. A small smile cracked her lips and he felt her scrawny fingers curl around his own like the clawed feet of a hawk gripping the trembling tree branch during a brutal storm.

"I must truly be growing old for I already lost my breath to argue. That never happened when I was young!" She chuckled to somewhat lighten the mood, but Arthur couldn't join her. Instead, he stared intensely at their clasped hands, more tears blurring his vision. After a moment's silence, he noticed her other hand lightly pat the top of his before squeezing it gently.

"Thank you for the adventure, my darling," she murmured in the sincerest and most grateful voice he heard from her in a long time.

He looked around the bedchamber, at the same setting they've been stuck in for weeks. His shoulders slumped under the weight of hopelessness. "What adventure?"

"And you say you remember everything." She sighed, although it sounded more like a groan. "On our wedding night, you asked me if I'd like to go on an adventure with you and, I must say, it's the best one I've ever been on." She looked at him. "But don't—"

"Please, Lizzie. I can't take much more." His voice cracked at her name as he shook his head slowly, wishing more than ever to be as wrinkly and feeble as her, to be the same as her.

Her cold fingers softly took a hold of his chin and turned it in her direction. He saw that youthful and determined look in her eyes through his watery gaze, the one he admired so much.

"But don't let this become the only adventure you'd go on," she continued. "I have brought you a Golden Age and rebuilt you from the scraps my family left behind. I gave you more life to live and I refuse to watch you waste it all away by weeping over my grave. You gave me everything I wished for and I'm afraid I can't thank you enough for it. So, live on knowing you kept your promise because I know that is what's been eating at you lately. This world will be yours one day, and I want you to carry it high over your head—none will threaten my little England ever again once they finally see what I know you're capable of. Mark my words: you will live."

He made no noise, yet the tears kept coming. Her eyes became sad as she carefully rubbed them away and then placed her head upon his shoulder.

"I love you so much," she whispered to him, squeezing his hand once more.

Although his body had lost all feeling and the motivation to carry on Elizabeth's desires had not yet come to him (but how he wished it would!), his voice was balanced and sure when he said, "I will always love you and I'm going to miss you terribly."

Three days later, she stopped breathing in her sleep.

Despite all the emotional preparations made for this very moment, his heart dropped to the floor, shattering into a million pieces upon impact as if it were made of glass or porcelain. He no longer felt her warm breath against his collarbone, no longer saw the steady rise and fall of her chest. His sleepless eyes grew as wide as they could at the awful change. With slow and trembling hands, he pushed against her wrists and neck, feeling for a pulse. Nothing pushed back. He hovered his fingers over her nose and mouth. They remained cold. He laid his palm above her breast. Complete and utter stillness.

His lovely Lizzie was no more.

As he enveloped his wife in his arms, curling into her limp body, he buried his head in her shoulder and then, with all the weight of this cruel world crashing over him like a tidal wave, sobbed and sobbed until his throat burned and his eyes stung. (Later, he would hear the royal staff whisper to one another, comparing his cries to the moans of a wounded animal.)

Grave expressions or soft cries were the reactions of Elizabeth's ladies-in-waiting and Privy Council once they gathered into her bedchamber to find Arthur clinging the queen's dead body. His cheeks were damp, his eyes were bloodshot, his limbs were shaky—one could understandably ask the question: who did those people pity more?

He was mute, deaf, and immobile to the whole situation; the men easily pried her away from his arms and laid her on her bed, the women crowding around them. Cordell and Robert were the only exceptions—after staring at the body for a while, they pushed back their own tears and then hurried toward the heap of misery and shame that was Arthur Kirkland. Robert pulled him up onto his numb feet while Cordell straightened his crinkled clothes, telling him to go get some sleep. It took a while, but they eventually guided the exhausted soul out of the chamber. His eyes—they burned so much that his frail mind believed he was going blind—never left the bed; he ducked around the bodies gathered around Elizabeth's just to catch a glimpse of her robe, a fingernail, or the tip of her nose. He did manage to capture her lifeless face by the doorway: her closed eyes, her parted lips, her relaxed expression. She appeared as if she was still caught in a deep slumber.

As the chamber door quietly shut in his face, he didn't realize this would be the last time he'd see Elizabeth, in the flesh and blood, ever again.

He was told that he slept over twenty-two hours. He felt as though he hadn't slept at all.

With his chin in his palm and his fingers curled against his lips, he stared at the adjacent wall unblinkingly as the council members sitting around him quietly but firmly described their solution to the situation at hand. Elizabeth's body had been moved for the time being (they would not tell him where) while preparing for funeral arrangements. Because there was no oral nor written record of the fallen queen's preferred successor, for she produced no children and her husband was the literal personification of a country (therefore he was unfit to govern himself), they were enforced to call out for King James VI of Scotland, Mary's son and Elizabeth's godson,[10] to rule over England as well.

His heavy eyes peered down at the coronation ring sitting on the table before him, at its giant ruby and tiny diamonds which appeared dull and in need of a shining. They also informed him that it took a great deal of effort to remove the ring from Elizabeth's finger—because she had never taken it off, the skin swelled around it. They left her wedding band alone.

Without looking up, he told the council members that he would write the letter for King James and advised them to tell the public of the Queen's death.

"That won't be necessary, my lord," he heard Robert say quietly. "We'll take care of the letter, the public, and the funeral. You needn't to worry—"

"I wasn't asking." He sighed and then continued: "I am still a member of this council and I will continue to be until everyone in this room is dead, so I might as well do what is require of me. Besides, wouldn't you all agree that James would be more impressed if England's personification personally asked for him to take his own throne?"

 _I know Allister would,_ he thought to himself. _This means our kingdoms will merge into one and we'll be working together instead of against. I'm…not sure what to think of this._

No one answered his rhetorical question. He morphed his left hand into a fist, feeling the cold metal of his ring, a reassuring yet dreadful reminder. He heard his dead wife's voice in his head: _Don't let this be the only adventure you'd go on…you will live._

He swallowed around the lump in his throat and mumbled, "I won't let you do all the work, for it is I who is flourishing."

Arthur completed the letter and sent it out that same day while Parliament announced Elizabeth's death to the people of London. He wasn't present at the time, but it was told that a deafening silence spread over the citizens as if they couldn't believe their ears. He kept himself busy, preparing for James's arrival and for Elizabeth's departure, but all these things he did in muteness and dragged his feet wherever he'd go. No one dared to confront him about his sluggish behavior and just went along with whatever he did like this crumbling man was who he really was. England's wealth, fame, and power was growing rapidly, but Arthur Kirkland was degrading slowly.

As he predicted, James was grateful for Arthur's personal request and naturally agreed to rule his country in addition to his brother's. He also sent thousands of pounds to use for Elizabeth's funeral which surprised Arthur to say the least. He wondered if James was closer to her than he thought or if he too had his suspicions about his relationship with the queen. He decided not to question it right now and used the money accordingly.

It was the twenty-eighth of April, the day of Elizabeth's funeral, when Arthur took off his wedding ring for the first time in forty-three years. As he stood in his bedchamber, he stared hopelessly down at the golden band and his now naked finger as if he just ripped off a fingernail rather than a piece of jewelry. Tears began glossing over his eyes, so he quickly put the ring away in a pocket-sized box and clamped it shut as if that would stop him from crying aloud. He panted heavily for some time—until the tears cleared out—and then carefully placed the wooden box inside a dresser drawer. He swiped at his eyes, adjusted his long black cloak, and then released a weighty sigh before exiting the chamber.

The funeral was a lavish event; it was fit for such a beautiful and admirable woman as she. Her lead coffin was draped with purple cloth with a life-size effigy of the lost queen on top who was dressed in her royal robes with a crown on her head and a scepter in her hands. This was carried by six white horses, black velvet covering their strong backs and thick necks. Arthur followed the hearse on horseback while the Privy Council, royal household, Parliament, and the people of London trailed behind him, all heading for Westminster Abbey, to the place where it all started.

As he rode through the streets, the crowd was mainly silent, giving peaceful silence for the queen. But every so often, someone would glance upon the effigy—whether from a curious bystander or someone looking out their window—and would cry out in sorrow. He couldn't blame them for mourning out loud; the statue was so life-like, so real, from her curly head of hair to her prominent nose to her slender fingers. He couldn't stop staring at it as he led the large group of grievers; he started to slouch and lower his confidence as memories flooded his mind.

He remembered Hatfield House and teaching future Edward IV of history and mathematics and language. Little Elizabeth would slowly sneak her way into their study sessions, starting from the doorway and ending up sitting right next to him. She would even offer to read aloud passages in Italian or solve some complicated puzzle; she beamed brightly whenever Edward got the correct answer, but her smile always reached to her eyes whenever Arthur congratulated her intelligence.

He remembered their occasional walks through the castle's gardens along after she took control of the throne. Sometimes others were with them like Kat Ashely or ambassadors or royal staff members; they'd talk about anything that came to their minds and point out all the beautiful scenery about them. One time, she plucked a budding rose from its shrubbery and inhaled its sweet aroma, stroked its silk-like petals. She showed him the flower which he took and stuck in her thick locks, saying how lovely it looked on her. She snorted at his poor attempt at flirting and then poked the same rose into his own hair before insisting how lovely _he_ looked in a playfully mocking tone.

He remembered the first time they made love. There was a heavy rainstorm that night, but the sound of crackling thunder and powerful winds were the furthest things from their minds. The feel of her warm skin, the smell of her perfumed hair, the taste of those desirable lips were all intoxicating to him and he couldn't keep himself from completely melting with her. He enjoyed the sensation of her fingernails digging into his shoulder blades and her legs interweaving with his own and her smile against his lips whenever he told her how much he loved her.

He remembered the Tower, her coronation, his proposal, their secret matrimony, her smallpox, the siege of Antwerp, Mary's execution, her speech at Tilbury. Her entire life flashed before his eyes and then all he saw was black velvet and her features made of stone.

"Lord England?"

"Yes, Your Majesty?"

"In my home country, there was a certain rumor floating around concerning the relationship between you and the late Queen Elizabeth. I'm sure you're familiar with it." James leaned forward. "Is it true?"

The courtroom echoed with silence and Arthur could sense all eyes on him, both English and Scottish. A lump had formed in his throat and he made an effort to work around it: "It depends on the rumor."

"That you two were more than just business partners. I remember how fondly she wrote of you in her letters to me. In all honesty, I wouldn't be too shocked if it were true." The king looked at him expectantly, although he appeared rather bored as if he already knew the answer and was impatiently waiting for Arthur to say it out loud.

He clamped his teeth shut, his jaw tightening as the stares around him intensified, trying to pry the confession out of him. He wouldn't budge, of course, even with Allister sitting right next to him, that sharp green glare hammering against the side of his head.

It was the first time he had seen his elder brother in several years and, from the looks of it, his attitude toward him hadn't changed in the slightest. He did appear physically better nevertheless; his thin beard had been neatly trimmed, his red and green belted plaid was wrinkle-free and as thick as sheep's wool, his sienna skin rested perfectly against his healed bones. What a shame his dooming and piercing glare wouldn't match his clean and detailed attire.

Still, Arthur ignored Allister's demeaning presence and the other Scottish eyes aimed at him; he was hardly aware of the Englishmen switching their gazes between James and he like anxious dogs waiting for the next crash of lightning. Arthur, constantly reminding himself to be as impassive as ever, rested his chin in his palm and shrugged. "A little far-fetched, but it's merely a rumor," he mumbled. "The next thing you'll hear is that the Catholics wish to make peace."

Low chuckles echoed around the room, some amused, some nervous; not one peep came out of Allister however, which in a way, was to be expected. James did nothing at first and continued to stare at Arthur as if trying to decode his answer, but he eventually gave in and grinned, snickering as well.

"Far-fetched, indeed," he agreed in that thick Scottish tongue of his. He faced his Privy Council again, taking in the richness of the English courtroom. "Well, now, back to the matter at hand: the New World…"

Try as he may, Arthur couldn't keep up the wall between him and Allister throughout the entire meeting.

In the month of May in the year 1605, King Henry IV of France proposed the concept of world meetings.

He had personally written letters to each monarch across the Continent and one to the Emperors in China and Japan to send their personifications to Paris where they would discuss each other's politics and other issues that needed to be brought up and potentially come up with some solutions. He insisted that this was both an effective and quick way of finding out what was going on in the world and assisting one another in times of need.

When James read the letter, he thought about its contents for some time before declaring, "Or it's a good way of getting them into a great fight." He then shrugged. "But I'll allow it."

It took four days to get to France's capital, yet it seemed more like four weeks to Arthur. Allister had been uncooperative and stubborn (more than usual, that is) ever since James merged their flags together, deeming them as "Great Britain" and every assignment with him was such a burden. He attempted speaking with his brother many times, but each conversation ended with clenched fists and unresolved circumstances. What was this unknown grudge he held against him?

He'd never admit it out loud, but he was glad when they finally came within sight of the Palace of Fontainebleau.

A French guard with a large nose led them through the very ornamental halls of the expanding palace. He noticed a few workers in their colorful attire moving uniquely elegant antiques, filling golden vases with white lilies, or hanging a grand painting of some Biblical tale. Whereas everything usually had straight lines and pointed ends and darker shades back home in London, Paris was beginning to adapt curves and florals and brighter tones. Knowing that some English fashion spawned from French fashion, Arthur could only pray that their architecture would keep separate.

As if he read his mind, Allister scoffed to himself, "It looks like a dug licking pish off a nettle."

Arthur peeked at his plaid dress and, deciding to be the bigger man, remained silent.

They came to the throne room. Besides the fleur-de-lis design scattered upon the rugs, curtains, tapestries, and anything else it could go on, the overall layout of the chamber was similar to the throne room in London with the richly adorned throne upon a small platform at the front and the half a dozen cushioned stools lining the walls on either side. He spotted Gilbert and Gabriel Beilschmidt sitting together on his left—the tall albino was attempting to break his younger brother's expressionless face by poking his sides and making funny faces at him. Roderich Edelstein was seated on the other side of the chamber, scanning his surroundings with his pointed nose high in the air while Elizabeta Héderváry (who was fully decked in men's attire) occasionally stole bashful glances his way. Francis Bonnefoy stood on the carpeted platform with King Henry as they conversed amongst themselves; the French sovereign appeared like a character from some fairytale with his thick salt-and-pepper hair majestically reaching out in all directions, his tight-fitting jerkin and wide frilly collar, and his bright blue eyes and moving hands made it seem as if he were telling Francis a fascinating tale.

Within thirty minutes, Henry introduced himself to his arriving guests, explained the concept of this "strictly personifications only" conference, and then, surprisingly, left his own throne room in Francis's hands with a humble smile that lifted his fuzzy moustache.

As the grand double doors slammed shut behind him, the sound echoing like a nasty shout, Arthur skimmed over the few familiar faces about him; there weren't too many of them to begin with. The only countries that were present were Spain, Portugal, the Holy Roman Empire, Hungary, Prussia, Austria, the Netherlands, Sweden, Denmark, the Ottoman Empire, France, Scotland, and himself. To be frank, more showed up than he thought there would be.

Francis sauntered around the room, his short heels clicking against the dark pine wood flooring. "I thank you all for coming to my humble home," he said in French with an egotistical smile. "Unfortunately, many personifications couldn't come to this meeting. The East refuses to communicate with us and didn't accept my king's invitation, so I personally thank _you,_ Monsieur Ottoman Empire, for joining us."

Sadık Adnan, who either didn't understand French very well or just didn't want to be there at all, failed to acknowledge Francis as he continued fiddling with the hilt of his yatagan.

Francis went on: "There are also personifications who are not their own countries, but rather colonies who do not carry enough knowledge or experience in order to contribute to these discussions, which brings us to our first conversation: expansion in the New World." He brushed away invisible dirt on his black velvet sleeve. "My business across the Atlantic has grown immensely in the past few years; I've recently visited a settlement at Île-Saint-Croix that seems to be moving along splendidly and the personification of New France—or Canada, I should say—is becoming friendly with my men and I. The child was apprehensive, frightened of us upon our first several visits, but overtime I came to comprehend his language and customs and he mine. I am very pleased with his improvements and I plan to bring him here in Paris to expand his intelligence in European affairs." [11]

Arthur frowned. He found Francis's fondness of his own colony to be a little strange—he referred to him as "Canada" rather than New France, meaning he already thought of him as a separate entity. Most countries had colonies for many different reasons: for gold and silver, for their resources, to enlarge their own property, to spread their religion and ideas to those uncultured natives. He heard the horror stories of the Aztecs, the people that Antonio confronted back in 1519: their daily human sacrifices, their obsession with their fake and brutal gods, their devilish attire and war-like personalities. Antonio forced their personification into submission, named them New Spain, and left it at that. Francis wanted to take it a step further and educate his colony properly by bringing him to the Continent himself. What a questionable idea, to say the least.

Francis turned to Antonio and João. "You two have the great responsibility of controlling several colonies with a very low source of income. Tell us, how _do_ you do it?"

There was a sharp edge in his tone; he apparently still hadn't forgiven Antonio for what happened at Fort Caroline.[12]

The last couple of decades were particularly difficult on the Carriedo brothers and it showed on their faces. Despite the richly adorned costumes and the sheathed longswords on their hips, no one could deny how exhausted they looked with those dark lines beneath their eyes and their hunched backs carrying the weight of heavy obligations.

Antonio had his elbows on his knees and his gaze on the floor when he answered in a low voice, "How I govern my people and colonies is none of your concern."

"Ah, on the contrary, but I believe it is. If not, then what is the purpose of this entire meeting? Did you even read the letter my king wrote—?"

"We're handling our duties just fine, thank you, France," João interrupted in Portuguese, throwing an icy glare in his direction. "It is apparent that you already know of our numerous colonies and of your failed attempts at keeping one and that is all you need to be aware of. We're just going through a minor economic struggle which is something we've all experienced." He crossed his arms and then mumbled something under his breath. Arthur grinned inwardly when he caught the Portuguese word for "English" and "pirates" pass his lips.

As if he heard the complaint as well, Francis faced Allister and Arthur, cracking one of his infamous smiles at them. "On related topics, your income has increased quite rapidly, isn't that right, 'Great Britain'? What do you plan to do with all that money?"

Allister shifted nosily in his seat as he responded back in French (Arthur had no idea how Francis could understand him with that rugged accent of his, but he watched him nodding along as if he were genuinely interested in his answer). "We've already spent some on sea exploration necessities for we plan to expand British power over to the New World as well." He chuckled humorlessly. "That island isn't big enough to house the two of us."

"I see. Well, it would be best if you hurry to accomplish that goal because many of us already claimed large amounts of land and are moving fast to gain more."

"Oh, don't worry about us. King James has always possessed a fascination for worldly exploration and I know he'll send us across the sea as soon as possible. And, from what I've been told, his godmother, Queen Elizabeth, also wished to do the same thing. What a shame she couldn't see her husband achieve that goal."

The shock that followed Allister's last sentence fell so quickly with so much weight upon Arthur that he couldn't help but to let out a strangled gasp as if he were just kicked in the stomach. His eyes bulged and his fists tightened. He suddenly felt as though he could faint at any moment; his face burned and his head was lighter than a feather.

The other countries looked at one another with puzzled expressions. Francis peered at Arthur's panicked appearance, at their fellow nations, and then back at Allister. "I'm…afraid I don't understand what you mean," he said slowly. "The queen was a virgin her entire life, was she not?"

Just as Arthur lifted his eyes to stare at his elder brother, Allister glanced down at him and smirked. "Do you honestly all believe it was only a metaphor when she said 'I am married to my country?'" he addressed to the room.

Instead of awkward silence echoing around the throne room, it was surprised and a bit chaotic chatter. Roderich, who sat beside him, slowly turned to Arthur with a disgusted look on his face. Gilbert and Antonio laughed out loud, calling out remarks like "I knew it!" and "I never thought of England to be such a romantic sop!" Gabriel and Elizabeta stared questioningly at him as if he were the embodiment of the most absurd and difficult riddle they ever came across. The others looked at each other and then back at Arthur; everyone was either sickened, stunned, or found the whole situation hilarious.

Everyone except Francis, who simply stood there with no expression at all.

Arthur didn't remember what exactly happened next—he only knew that he came out of the first world meeting with a bruised eye and his longsword in Allister's shoulder.

James decided to keep the Kirkland brothers on separate tasks, where they wouldn't have to see or speak with one another. He usually kept Allister by his side in London as he trusted him with his decision-making skills (he did grow up with the Scottish personification, after all) and he sent Arthur on exploration trips. Arthur didn't argue in the slightest—he wanted nothing more than to get away from his brother, his king, his home. Not only were all his problems there, but so was Elizabeth, lurking around every corner to throw another painful reminder that she was no more. He'd rather take his chances at sea, where nothing but the blue waves and grey skies surrounded him, where men dreamed of adventures and disregarded the fact they may never go back home. He'd rather smell nothing but salt and taste nothing but old rum and feel the slow rocking of the ship, a nauseous feeling to some but a distracting one to him. Here, in the open sea, he would be revisited by visions of the late Francis Drake and his obnoxious laughter as he stole large chests full of ancient wonders from angry Spaniards. He took those memories and applied them to the present, filling his head with navigation tactics and wishes of seeing the Spanish Empire crumble in his hand (which he was awfully close to attaining). He tried to distract himself in any way possible and he did, but he lost himself somewhere along the way, picking up that lust for more that Antonio dropped along with his empire. As the British Empire grew, so did Arthur's desire to conquer the whole world.

In 1607, the first British settlement was founded. They named the land Virginia (after the Virgin Queen herself) and the village Jamestown (after the current King of Great Britain). The English people that moved there struggled greatly with lack of food, disease, and the natives of the New World. Arthur did whatever he could to ease the worried minds of his people; he assisted in molding together homes and churches, offered his own portions of food and clean clothes to others, and, most importantly, confronting the Indians.[13]

Communication was a problem as Arthur never heard their language before (he never saw people like them before either with their colorful but loose clothing and paint-covered faces). Some days, they would stand there with the barrel of their guns in their dark faces while they yelled back in utter rubbish and with long spears in their fists. Casualties would follow and nothing would be accomplished. Arthur looked at his dying settlement and desperately wanted to save it, so he suggested to peacefully coexist with these seemingly barbarous people, to trade provisions and exchange knowledge. His men had no option but to agree with him and, for a short while, the natives wished for the same thing.

They gave them food and showed them how to maneuver across the land and they gave them guns and told them passages from the Bible in hopes of converting them to Christianity, specifically Protestantism. The English practically lived on what the Indians gave them and so when they began dropping like flies from an all-too-familiar disease, English lives grew heavy with the need to survive.

He hated to see the skeletal bodies of his people gliding around mounds of mud, searching for any scrap of food, for any form of salvation from this slow torture. He gathered a group of soldiers and then pushed them deeper into Virginia when they haven't received a visit from their Indian traders in a few days. With their guns in front of them, they quietly roamed through the colossal trees and around riverbends, searching for anything worth taking at this point.

Arthur was in the rear and double-checking everything his men scanned over. They'd been marching for more than half an hour now and still haven't spotted any sort of life yet besides the birds chirping overhead. He was rapidly growing frustrated and perhaps a little scared for the lives of his people and mentally prayed for a sign, something to show him that God had not abandoned him.

At that moment, he heard a tiny cough come from his left and jerked his head in that direction. He saw nothing but overcrowded shrubbery. He peeked back at his men, but no one seemed to have heard it as they all kept walking forward in the same sluggish pace. His eyebrows crinkled in slight confusion and then he shook his head, figuring he was just imagining things. He took a step forward, but the sound came again, very quiet, very rough.

He faced the shrubbery again. Nothing moved nor indicated that anything was there. A frown creased his chapped lips as he glanced at his soldiers—they were getting further away from him and as oblivious as ever. He decided to keep silent, however, and let them move on as he slowly stepped toward the bushes.

He poked the thick green leaves with his gun and carefully pushed them out of the way to reveal a little boy. A very strange-looking little boy.

He was lying on his back and struggling to take in deep breaths. He was dressed in the same attire as the Indians with loose beige-colored pants and a feathered hat. His chest was bare but covered with several tiny white spots; the spots were sprinkled all around his arms and round face as well. His hair was long and the color of honey but dirtier with little braids in it and his eyes, which were gazing up at the grey sky, were the color of the Atlantic Ocean that he sailed upon so many times. He appeared to be no older than ten-years-old.

Arthur was puzzled by this unknown boy's appearance. He had the blonde hair and blue eyes of an Englishman, but his scarred body and baggy clothes were like an Indian. The feathered hat he wore was great and contained very long and muddy brown feathers like the ones of a great hawk. He hadn't seen such a hat on an Indian unless they were in a higher position among their people, the equivalent of a king. Was this boy just that, a king?

Now that he thought about it, he haven't seen this land's personification yet. Was he it, this boy lying on the ground covered in smallpox, the immortal life slowly draining out of him?

The boy's eyes shifted to Arthur, blinked, and was then clouded with fury. His dry lips shaped and moved to say something and his throat bobbed in order to get it out. He muttered some unrecognizable word in a groggy voice and then reached out for something beside him. Arthur only realized it was a tomahawk once it came swinging in his direction.

He quickly fell back, missing the hit by a few inches. He was greatly impressed by the strength the boy carried, despite that he was in critical condition and in no shape to be throwing anything around. He noticed his loose grip, however, and then lightly kicked the weapon out of the boy's hand. The little Indian boy grunted in pain and frustration.

"Calm your nerves, little one," Arthur whispered, forcing on his crooked smile. "I'm not going to hurt you."

The boy, now on his stomach, bared his teeth at him before coughing into the mud.

"I'm not going to hurt you," he repeated. "Do you understand? No more harm will come your way."

As he said this, he showed him his gun and then gently tossed it to the side, raising his flat palms in the air. He got onto his knees and continued smiling at the boy. This was it, that something he'd been looking for. He couldn't mess this up, not here, not now.

"My name is Arthur Kirkland," he told him, starting with his personal name first, the one that people only close to him would use. "I am the personification of England, a land far away from here. What is your name?"

The child curled his fingers into the crumbling dirt beneath him, staring up at Arthur as if he were the mad one. Seeing he was going nowhere with words alone, he lowered himself onto the ground with his white palms still facing the boy, to show he had nothing to harm him with. He stared at his face, which was overtaken with those horrible white spots that he knew claimed the lives of thousands.

"I want to help you, little one," he said. "And I think you could help me as well. Please let me take you back to my settlement. I know it hurts now, but it will get better soon. I promise."

The boy said nothing, but only stared at him with wide eyes and a gapping mouth. Slowly, his eyes began to droop and his hold on the ground relaxed; before he knew it, his eyelids closed and he supposedly passed out.

Arthur reached out and pressed two fingers against the Indian boy's warm neck; a pulse was still there, though faint. He wasn't even certain if this little warrior was the personification of this land or just some strange child left behind in the wilderness. Either way, he felt a powerful urge to save him, no matter who he was.

He stood as he scooped him up his arms, the feathered hat slipping from his head and tumbling to the ground. He whirled around and hollered at the silhouettes of his men far ahead, "There's an Indian child here! He's dying!"

They left behind the feathered hat and tomahawk upon the woodland floor.

The boy should've died long ago. Millions of tiny white spots caked his entire body, nearly to the point when he would've been unrecognizable if it weren't for the beads in his hair and the buckskin trousers. He hardly moved and went in and out of consciousness for days, so when Arthur found him mumbling frantically in his strange language and scrambling away whenever someone came near him whilst suffering from a terribly high fever and horrible stomachaches, he assumed he possessed the powerful immune system of a nation.

And because he still didn't comprehend his language (therefore unable to inquire about his personal background and proper name) he began referring to him as New England.

At first, New England didn't take a liking to Arthur at all. He would howl and bite and rage like a wolf whenever he touched him and pushed back all the clothes, food, and conversations he offered him. Some nights he tried to sneak away and return to wherever he came from, but Arthur expected this sooner rather than later and caught him every single time. With those ocean eyes bright with fright and those cracked and bleeding lips curled back in fury, he looked more and more like one of these wild, uncultured creatures that inhabited the New World.

A couple decades passed this way—Arthur would carry out the wishes of his king by expanding British territory westward and bringing more English settlers to their new homes. He encountered more Indians along the way; some were bitter, some were calm, yet New England remained incompetent all the same. Arthur had to study their customs and languages through chief leaders all while the boy sat mute off to the side. He then took what he learnt and attempted to stir up something, anything with New England to get him to cooperate, but he continued to pout and say words he didn't understand yet (more than likely curses).

 _How the hell did France win the trust of New France so quickly?_ he asked himself in frustration, painfully aware that he was running in circles at this point.

The question pounded against his skull as he walked through a short field of wavy grass. He carried an axe in his right hand, sweating and panting heavily after chopping firewood for nearly three hours. He had spotted a narrow river in the near distance and then decided to take an intermission.

 _I cannot progress further without the submission of this country and his people. What must I do that I haven't done already? He's practically asking for a war if he continues resisting in any sort of way._

Once he came within a couple meters of the shallow river, he threw his axe into the soft ground with a flick of his wrist, lowered onto his knees, and then plunged his aching hands into the cool water. He cupped it in his palms and drank from it, he splashed some against his face and ran his wet hands through his choppy hair. He went for another handful of river water when he sensed something fall from his trousers pocket.

The water slipped between his fingers as he turned to peek behind himself. He saw a golden locket among the dirt and rocks, shining brilliantly in the hot morning sun. He grabbed it, sat back, and opened the locket. Inside was a painted portrait of his dear Lizzie.

It had been twenty-five years since her passing and Arthur still carried around little mementoes of her wherever he went. This locket, his wedding ring, a letter she'd written to him while he was overseas; somedays he would study these objects as if it were the last time he'd ever see them and sometimes he'd forget that they were even lodged in his pocket. In other words, somedays were simply better than others.

He examined the miniature painting, noting how the artist chose a brighter shade of red for her hair and made her cheeks as plump as apples. It didn't look exactly like her, but it was enough to spur up more remembrances. His thumb gently traced the outer rim of the locket and he was so absorbed in her painted self that he didn't hear the soft crunching of small feet approach him until a voice spoke in his ear.

A jolt ran through his spine as he choked out a low "Fuck", clutching his chest as if that would clam down the sudden rapid beating of his heart. He snapped his head toward the voice over his shoulder and was a bit surprised to find New England standing there, his big blue eyes staring back at him. He still wore his preferred Indian attire with a buffalo skin wrap and feathers stuck in his long hair.

"Ah, it's you," Arthur mumbled, slowly shifting back into a sitting position. He let go of his shirt, cleared his throat, and then combed his fingers through his damp hair. "You gave me quite a fright."

New England took two steps forward so that he stood directly above him and then pointed at Arthur's left hand. In Algonquian, he asked, "Who is that?"

He glanced down at the opened locket, but he didn't close it immediately. He debated about telling him or not—yes, she and him were supposed to stay a secret, that's how it always was, but now all the countries know and so does his own king and, more than likely, he'll hear about it sooner or later. There wasn't any reason to hide it from him.

He pursed his lips and answered back in his Indian language, "She's my wife."

Instead of glaring at him or stepping away from the great sin he committed, New England merely nodded as if he expected that very answer. Arthur found his reaction a bit strange for two reasons: one, every other country turned away from Arthur in utter disgust once Allister blurted out his big secret at the first world meeting. Something like that never happened in history before, but New England, who probably never left his own country before, wouldn't know that. Arthur also learned that it was normal for Indian chiefs to take up multiple wives and have several children. Two, why was he suddenly so calm around him? _He_ came up to _him_ and was actually creating a conversation with him. What was with this unforeseen demeanor of his? Arthur decided to not question him about it, for he might grow angry again and refuse to make another attempt to speak with him.

"I haven't seen anyone with red hair before," New England remarked, observing Elizabeth's famous curls. He paused in thought before continuing, "Is she in your country? I haven't seen her around your camps."

Arthur closed the locket and shoved it back in his pocket. "She's dead."

New England flinched back. "You married a dead woman?"

He shot an irritated glare at the child. "She wasn't dead when I wedded her."

"Oh."

The boy began circling him in a very playful manner—he brushed his legs against the tall grass and hopped on the smooth black rocks that poked out of the flowing river. He jabbered on as he did so: "I've noticed that the women from your land—the white-skinned women—they don't do too much. The women in my land, however, are very wise and do everything that a man can do. I like the medicine women the best; they're always kind to me.[14] Perhaps they can speak with the white-skinned women and get them to help out some more. That woman in your necklace—she looks important like a chief with strange clothes. Was she a chief? If she was a chief and was important and did a lot of things, then why can't the other women do things too? Maybe if…"

"I'm supposed to be correcting your flawed culture, not you with mine," Arthur grumbled but New England didn't hear the comment, for he kept saying the things that were on his mind. But Arthur wanted to speak his thoughts as well.

"Why are you suddenly so talkative?" he asked him, this time more clearly. "I've attempted to break your persistent silence for such a long time and just now you came up and began chatting away. What changed?"

New England peeked at him before looking down at his feet again. "You looked sad, sadder than usual, so I followed you here. I thought you needed to speak with someone; speaking with someone usually makes me feel better, too. Are you sad because of your dead wife? I can understand that. I mean, I'm not married or anything, but I've seen a lot of people die too—people I cared about. That's one horrible thing about living forever: you have to watch people die while you must stay alive. If you want, I can speak to the trees about your dead wife. Trees are good listeners and have been here longer than I have and spirits like to hide in trees. Maybe she's in a tree—"[15]

"I'm touched for your concern, little one," Arthur interrupted again, rubbing his temple in slow circles as a way to somewhat calm the fast beating of his petrified heart, "but that won't do anything for me. She's already in a Christianized heaven which is something you need to learn about. Also, do try speaking to me in English—I know you know it. Some of your people speak it so why can't you?"

This time, New England didn't respond. He just went on circling Arthur with his light steps like a curious bird. Arthur then reached out and grabbed his wrist, bringing him to a halt. The boy tensed a bit, but didn't shake his limb away. Arthur let go, glanced up at him, and asked in English, "What is your name? Besides New England, I mean."

He didn't answer at first; he wrapped his poncho tighter around his body and stared at the trickling river. Arthur waited patiently as he stared at the boy's lips—they moved slightly as if trying to shape his next words before actually speaking them. He sighed quietly and then replied in the requested language slowly but surely (he even attempted the English accent instead of staying in his own).

"I have many names; it's different with each tribe. Sometimes they call me Great Turtle[16]or Great Land or Son of Mother Earth. I will answer to any of them."

Arthur paused. "What do you call yourself? Which name do you favor the most?"

New England scrunched his eyebrows together in thought and then looked down at himself as if the answer was somewhere on him. He softly stroked one of the brown feathers in his hair and then looked up at him, smiling widely.

"Pocahontas sometimes calls me Little Eagle. An eagle is my favorite animal; they see everything from the clouds and trees and have been everywhere like me. She probably calls me Little Eagle because I'm shorter than her, though."

Arthur couldn't help but to smirk at his childish innocence.

After that, New England slowly began hanging around Arthur more and more often. When he mastered the English language, Arthur gave him another name, this one more sentimental and more thought-out than New England.

Alfred Franklin Jones.[17]

* * *

[1] Though far more Spanish soldiers perished than did English (about 1/3 of the armada made it back to Spain safely), several Englishmen died of diseases like dysentery and typhus fever on the way back home. Overall, about 20,000 Spanish died and 7,100 English.

[2] The King's Evil (a fancy term for tuberculous) became a common custom in England and France when people believed that they could be cured by this dreaded disease with the hands of royalty. The king (or queen) would press their hands against the victim's swollen lymph glandes and let their royal magic do its thing—Elizabeth did this with hundreds of patients and she honestly believed she was doing some good with it. The custom lasted for about 700 years in England and 800 in France.

[3] This song, though traditionally sung by nuns during Mass, was a popular song during the Renaissance. The lyrics tell of a virgin and her happy and spiritual marriage to Jesus while continually asking for his guidance. The hymn was dedicated to virgin martyrs and is still sung by women in Catholic churches to this day.

[4] Though the British Empire wouldn't start thriving until King James I takes over in 1603, Elizabeth definitely provided the stepping stones to the long, great empire we all know about. The defeat of the Spanish Armada and perhaps even her own proclaimed virginity are just a few examples of how great Elizabeth was and how these events helped the rise of the British Empire.

[5] Philip wouldn't give up so easily and sent more Spanish troops to the British Isles to take Elizabeth down, most of which were meant to support the Irish in their many rebellions against the English forces (the Spanish, however, were easily defeated each time they came even near the Isles either by storm at sea or by the hands of the English). England was trying to take control of the whole of Ireland during this time and the Irish, obviously upset by this, fought back in many rebellions like the Desmond and Leinster Rebellion though these ended poorly in the rebels' hands and English control spread even further. Things wouldn't settle down until the end of the Nine Years War in Ireland when Elizabeth died and James I took over who was a little more sympathetic toward the Irish and pardoned most of them.

[6] The English and many other European countries were aware that North and South America existed, it's just most didn't have the money, armies, or power to explore said lands. Spain was the first to have discovered the Western part of the globe (excluding the Nordic Vikings who made temperamental settlements here and there), but England wasn't too far behind them. The first English settlement was in Roanoke, North Carolina in 1587 (founded by Sir Walter Raleigh in 1585, the real English captain against the Spanish Armada), but the 120 men, women, and children there all mysteriously disappeared within a short period of time—no one knows what happened to them to this day. Although Elizabeth loved adventure and encouraged exploration by sea, she sadly wouldn't live to see the British Empire spread its forces over American soil.

[7] Though it is still a heated debate among historians today, the official cause of Elizabeth's death is still unknown. Most arguments support blood poisoning through all that lead-based makeup Elizabeth so often wore throughout her reign. Meant as a cover-up for all the scars left behind from her smallpox attack at 28-years-old, it did her more harm than good as wearing lead-based makeup for long periods of time can do some pretty nasty things to you. Symptoms include memory loss, pain in abdomen and joints, nausea, fatigue, loss of appetite, migraines, and insomnia (Elizabeth experienced most, if not all, these symptoms). Other arguments for her death include cancer, streptococcus, or pneumonia. Sad thing is lead was universally declared a poison 31 years after Elizabeth's death and most modern doctors and historians firmly believe that if she didn't wear all the makeup (or had been so caught up in the impossibly high beauty standards at the time) she would've lived much longer and her death probably wouldn't have been so physically and emotionally painful.

[8] The English have always been very good on keeping note on things—for as long as they've had a written language it seems like—which is why I've stressed the destruction of the council's written records to the max. The equivalent of this is like asking a fanfic writer, who already knows the general idea of an already written story, to erase all files of said story from all different places, and to act like it never existed by never mentioning it. (You'd somewhat understand their troubles, right?)

[9] To "bleed" someone in medieval and renaissance times means to commit bloodletting on them which is when doctors would cut open a vein (or let a leech do it for them) on a patient in order to cure any blood-related or unknown disease. This has been a very common medical procedure over almost 2,000 years and, in some rare cases, it is still used today.

[10] Before Mary and Elizabeth's relationship turned deadly, they were good friends—so much so that Mary asked (via letter) if Elizabeth would become the godmother of little James to which she humbly agreed (she ended up being the godmother of over 102 children during her lifetime). After Mary's execution, Elizabeth never quite recovered from the guilt of "killing" her and would sometimes write to James—they would write to each other seeking advice on certain diplomatic or homely matters. Since Mary fled to England when James was so small, he didn't have a good memory of her and only knew her as the queen and the mother who abandoned him, causing Scotland to fall into a brutal civil war for 5 years. Elizabeth would apologize for the death of his mother during her final year of life, but it didn't do much for him; he was never sorry for her death in the first place.

[11] In 1534, Captain Jacques Cartier was one of the first Frenchmen to discover the wonderful land of Canada which he claimed for King Francis I (aka Henry VIII's archnemesis). Cartier apparently heard the Iroquoian word "Kanata" said by two of his captured guides, meaning "village" and Canada started appearing on maps in the 1550s. Of course, the natives didn't like the French moving into their homes and stealing their stuff, so fights naturally ensued between the two and things wouldn't officially settle down until 1701. But the French were a bit more understanding than the English or the Spanish (the Spanish tended to just kill off natives without question and the English liked cultural genocide and forcing you to become English). The French began taking in Native Canadian customs and languages and traded with them whenever they could—they were big fans of beaver fur and boy, did the natives have a lot of it. If they had to choose, the natives of North America would probably pick a Frenchman over an Englishman or a Spaniard to side with.

[12] In 1564, the French settled in Jacksonville, Florida and named their settlement Fort Caroline. It was meant to be a safe haven for the Huguenots (French Protestants) to get away from those vicious Catholics that had a nasty habit of committing mass murder on them (remember St. Bartholomew's Day?), but this salvation was very short-lived. The Spanish came by, killed nearly everyone in the settlement, and then built their own fort on top of it. A few years later, French troops came over and then burned down the Spanish fort before killing all their Spanish prisoners in revenge for what happened in 1564. Fort Caroline is now a national park and memorial.

[13] When the English landed in Jamestown, Virginia in May 1607 (do check the place out if you ever get the chance—I've been once and it's like a ghost town), they encountered the Powhatan people, an Algonquian-speaking tribe. They were composed of some 30 tribal groups and had a total population of 14,000. Pocahontas was a part of this tribe and the daughter of the head chief, Wahunsenacawh (she was 12 at this time and did not fall for the greedy and obese John Smith like how the Disney movie suggests). The Powhatan were suspicious of the English at first, but decided to give them a chance by showing them around and trading with them, but the English quickly grew aggravated with the natives' refusal to submit to English rule and became angsty with them. Smallpox also spread like wildfire throughout America and this epidemic was by far worse than Europe's with the Black Death; it killed roughly 90% of all Native Americans.

[14] I remember doing a project on the importance of Native American women in school and I'm happy I was able to sneak some information about them into this fic. 😊 Native American (and possibly Native Canadian, I'm not too sure about them) women had a lot more rights and freedoms than most European or Asian women did at the time. They were farmers, craftswomen, warriors, and builders. Not only were they in charge of raising children and keeping the family together, but they also were responsible for building homes (or tepees) and usually had to fix them if they were damaged in any way. Men knew and respected a woman's worth and usually brought them along for buffalo hunting and let them cut, skin, and cook the animal. They also repaired clothing, chopped down trees for firewood, and constructed weapons out of animal bones. Medicine women shared the same role as medicine men, but most people thought a woman had a stronger ability or had more healing powers that were able to soothe sick souls via prayers and chants to the spirit world. Needless to say, Native American women were extremely important to the tribe and they were well-respected by their male counterpart.

[15] Native American spirituality is mainly focused on animism, a belief that souls of the dead or other religious figures are embodied in inanimate objects, much like ancient China and Japan. Native Americans believed there were souls within nature like trees, rocks, animals, rivers, and the earth and often asked them for guidance, good fortune, and other normal prayers that can relate to all religions. Although the religious stories differs some from each tribe, they're all based on animism nevertheless.

[16] Native Americans had different names for America before New England became the country's new title. Most called it "Turtle Island" based on a creation story and how the earth was seen from a bird's eye view. When the earth was first covered in water, many animals tried swimming to the bottom of the ocean to collect dirt and bring it back to put upon a turtle's shell which grew into the whole North America continent.

[17] Alfred the Great was a king that ruled over the Anglo-Saxons in present day UK from 886-899. He defended his people from many Viking invasions and eventually became dominant ruler of England. He also had a reputation for being very merciful and extremely smart, encouraging the expansion of education, teaching English rather than Latin, greatly improved military structure and the legal system. He was given the title "the Great" during the Protestant Reformation, the time when Elizabeth was alive. Headcannon that Arthur named Alfred after this king? 😊


	21. The Lucky One

****It's been roughly a month, but my heart goes out to France's recent tragedy of the burning of Notre Dame. I walked into my world history class to find my professor playing a news report on the burning and just watching it get swallowed in smoke left me speechless; it was hard to see one of the world's most beautiful and religious buildings set aflame. BUT it could be worse. Many artifacts were saved, most of the building still stands, and you Europeans are really good at buildings things to how they were before (with all those wars and everything). Yes, it was devastating, but it's totally manageable. France is okay, you guys—it's gonna take a whole lot more than that to take him down.**

 **Speaking of internal devastation, here's another chapter.****

 _31 March 2017_

Opening his eyes was like trying to open a door with rusted hinges and a jammed doorknob. Something was always holding him back—the blinding sunlight steaming in through the wide windows, the alcohol still clogged in his brain, the dull aches reverberating around his body—but, for some reason, he still insisted on opening his eyes, on waking himself up.

Gradually, his eyelids peeled open and he was brought back to the twenty-first century.

The first thing he came to realize was the carpet beneath him. It was hard and scratchy and smelled faintly of dust. He rolled his head toward the ceiling, sensing a crook in his neck and the beginning of a terrible headache. His eyes dragged to his left where he saw a door opened ajar, white tile flooring, and the curved handles of a large cabinet. A bathroom.

He peeked at his right. He recognized his own briefcase lying flat on its side next to him. An outlet was stuck to the steel grey wall and an oak trim ran along its border. He also noticed the dull shine of a key and a plastic tag attached together on a metal hoop. On the tag were the words "Marriott Hotel" in a wavy font.

A small sigh escaped him. He was in his hotel room.

Arthur clutched his head as he slowly sat up, wincing slightly. He felt the sharp pounding against his temples and could taste a bitter spark on his tongue. His back popped rhythmically as he straightened his curled spine. He peeked through his dirty fringe and glanced down at himself. His suit was stiff and wrinkly, his tie was undone, his shoes had dark stains all over them. He looked and felt like shit.

 _Fuck, I need a shower_ , he thought to himself, reeking of sour clothes and shame. He sluggishly got onto his feet, shuffled deeper into the small room, grabbed some clean clothes from the suitcase he left by the bed, and then shuffled into the bathroom. It wasn't until he had removed his jacket, yanked off his tie, and began unbuttoning his shirt that he started to wonder what had happened the night before.

He remembered having dinner with Kiku, hearing his experience in Nagasaki during the war, watching him leave with Mei and Yong Soo, ordering another pint. But what happened next?

His eyes surveyed his body in the mirror as if there were physical evidence somewhere on him. He saw the pink shriveled-up piece of skin around his heart—it was about the size of a pomegranate—that slowly grew each time his capital burned,[1] but other than that, nothing significantly important could be spotted on his person. He looked down at his wedding ring and recalled being very upset and ordering another round at dinner once Kiku left. Another frustrated sigh blew from his lips as the memories—recent ones, that is—clicked back on in his mind like a flickering flashlight.

He flexed the hand that he had pierced with the broken, dirty remains of an empty beer bottle; it was clear of any grime, blood, or glass as if nothing ever happened. His eyes squinted at his open palm. But who brought him to his hotel room? Did they rummage through his things to get his room key? He remembered being handled roughly in that alleyway and he did just wake up on the floor as though he were nothing more than a stray dog with no sense of purpose. It had to have been someone he knew.

Arthur frowned and shook his head. He didn't want to think about all that now; it was probably another nation who saw him when passing by and begrudgingly helped him. He couldn't think of any country that would willingly assist him anyway, so what was the point?

With careful fingers, he slipped his wedding band off, lumbered back to the open suitcase on his bed, placed it in a tiny wooden box he always carried with him, and then zipped up the bag before shuffling back to the bathroom. He gripped his head again.

 _Goddammit._

Roughly thirty minutes later, he had showered, dressed, and finished packing his belongings (which he hadn't really unpacked in the first place). His wedding ring was still tucked away within his suitcase, his hands now bare of any piece of jewelry. An irritated huff escaped him once he peered at his phone and realized the time. 10:42 AM. Naturally, he had missed his flight at eight that morning and now he was suffering the consequence of still being stuck in another continent.

Determined to leave as soon as possible, he gathered his things, grabbed his room key, and then headed out the door as if he were running late for his flight instead of already being three hours behind schedule.

He hurried down the dimly lit hallway, dragging his suitcase behind him and keeping his gaze aimed straight ahead, ignoring all the cleaning maids and tourists and other temporary residents of the hotel. He eventually came across two elevators side by side; he leaned forward to press the down button between them and then impatiently waited for one of the reflective doors to open. Soon enough, the one on the left gradually slid open and several people with bulky duffle bags hobbled out. Once the last traveler stepped out of the way, he hopped into the machine and smacked the ground floor button without even realizing that it was already aglow and that there was someone in there with him.

He went to let out a sigh of progress, but he ended up choking on it when he heard a familiar voice say beside him, "How was your evening?"

Once his coughing fit subsided, his gaze landed on a tall man in a navy shirt and grey slacks with his wavy blond hair tied back into a loose ponytail. Arthur rolled his eyes and groaned in frustration.

"Why is it always you?" he complained as he anxiously watched the lighted numbers descend to G _very slowly._

Francis grinned and scratched his scruffy jaw. "I suppose I just have the best of timings."

"I'd say the worst timing," he grumbled.

"You shouldn't say that after what I did for you last night."

He closed his eyes and shook his head. "What the actual fuck is wrong with—"

"No, honestly. Did you think it was Alfred or Matthew or even Kiku that dragged your drunk ass to your hotel room? I say you're lucky that I'm a nicer man than all of them and was willing to carry you through the rain and the cold when I could've just left you there to choke on your own vomit."

His eyebrows scrunched together in confusion. He peeked at him again. "That was you?"

Francis glanced at the ceiling. "I too ask God why is it always me."

Arthur ran a hand down his face, his headache getting more aggressive. "I can't believe this."

The Frenchman's only response was an amused snort and then awkward silence filled the elevator. Frankly, Arthur would have never guessed it would be Francis that hauled him out of that alleyway. However, that did explain the roughness he felt during his drunken state and how he awoke on the floor with a crook in his neck and an overwhelming sense of guilt. But why do such a thing in the first place? What was the point of it all? The unanswered questions made everything so much more puzzling; his headache pounded like a drill-hammer against his skull while fatigue weighed down on the rest of his body like yesterday's rain.

Francis spoke up once more, this time with more sincerity. "Are you feeling alright? In all honesty."

He wasn't sure how to respond—to continue in snarky retorts to get him off his back or to answer simply in hopes that it would satisfy him and then the subject would drop altogether. Because he was exhausted and didn't want to engage in any sort of discussion, he chose the latter: "Yes, I'll be fine."

Francis nodded. "Good."

Almost immediately after he said this he whipped around and slammed a fist into the wall by Arthur's head. The sound of it might've been a mere echo to a bystander, but to Arthur, it was like an explosion of metal and gears. He jolted violently at the sudden action; his eyes snapped toward Francis's which were sparking in fury.

"Now I won't feel so bad when I beat you into a bloody pulp," he growled.

"What the fuck are you doing?" Arthur shouted in his face. "Piss off, you waste of space!"

"I'm not going anywhere until you understand just exactly what you've done to her and to me." He spoke in a voice that was daunting and full of rage; he yanked at Arthur's collar and bared his teeth like how a wolf or a lion would.

"Understand wha—"

" _Shut up!"_

He rammed the back of Arthur's head against the wall of the elevator, causing a major amount of pain to burst in his ears as if a grenade had exploded right behind him. The elevator spun and shifted in ways it wasn't supposed to, but he could still feel Francis's grip on him and hear his angry words.

"You think my people don't know what love is? You think I don't know what you're going through?" Francis's hold tightened, trembling with the utmost wrath. " _You're_ the one who doesn't know anything! How can you be so ignorant of your own actions? How did you not notice?" He shoved him against the wall again. " _How could you forget her!"_

"What are you talking about?" Arthur managed out between clenched teeth, bracing himself for impact. The pain in and around his head was too much to fight back, much less Francis's strong hands on his neck.

His blue orbs grew darker than the bottom of the sea. "Don't you remember Jeanne d'Arc? The nineteen-year-old girl you set on fire back in 1431 because you didn't want to lose a war to a French woman?[2] _Remember her_?"

The name struck a cord in Arthur, a much bigger one than he expected. He did recall a short, boyish-looking girl, fully clad in metal armor with an attitude as sharp as her sword. She was one of the few mortal women in his life (including Elizabeth) that pointed out his flaws or wrongdoings and threatened his demise if he did not fix them. He also remembered her terrified face and hoarse cries as bright orange flames swallowed her whole.

His brows furrowed, shaking his head in doubt. "France, I—"

"You don't get any say in this," Francis hissed. "When will you learn that? When will you finally realize that you're the lucky one? Elizabeth had lived a long, fulfilling life which you spent every waking moment being a part of, while I knew Jeanne for barely a year before you took her and killed her. She was only a child, Arthur! A little girl! And here you are, throwing yourself a pity party all because age got the best of your mortal wife. I wanted to throw you to the curb every time you sobbed her name when I had to drag you back here last night."

He gave one last push at Arthur and then stepped back to see him stumble against the wall, grasp at his neck and head, blink slowly amidst the aches of his hangover and Francis's anger. Arthur straightened up as much as he could and looked at Francis with regretful eyes. "I'm serious, I didn't—"

"You didn't what? Mean to do it? No, you were merely following orders."

Francis's scowl drilled into his brain as he peeked at the digital numbers overhead, ticking down like a much-needed time bomb. They just passed floor seven.

Arthur gritted his teeth. An angry knot formed in his chest, right next to the giant lumps of remorse and sorrow. "If this is your way of 'helping' me, then it's not working! It's only making matters worse for the both of us."

"Making matters worse seems to be the only way to get anything to work with you." Francis simply stared, his eyes brooding, his hands trembling. He hesitated before speaking again and Arthur could tell he was choosing his next set of words very carefully, searching for the most effective method of verbally hurting him.

"For the last time, Arthur, I know _exactly_ how you feel about all of this. I know this because I too watched Jeanne continually get pushed down and disrespected by nearly everyone she met. I also carry mementos of her whenever I need her the most—ever wondered why I always held that little wooden cross so tightly while we were stuck in those trenches during the first world war?[3] I am reminded of her death in almost every expected and unexpected way and somedays I just want to drown myself in the Seine and finally embrace her once again. But then I remember I can't because that brave little girl gave up her life so I could win the war and continue growing into the prosperous nation she wanted me to be. Now look me in the eye and tell me you don't know what I'm talking about."[4]

Francis waited yet Arthur didn't respond simply because he related to nearly everything Francis just said.

He could only stare back, clearly shaken to the core, as what little pride he had left shattered into a million pieces around them. It was truly a miracle he didn't fall to the ground, weighed down by regret, or choke out heartbroken sobs; his eyes casted downward in shame which was still a great and shocking submission to almost all who knew him.

Either Francis was rendered speechless by his surrender or was relishing in it, having the satisfaction of seeing his greatest enemy finally admitting to what he thought as the most devastating act that England ever committed on his land. (It would be tremendously bizarre, Arthur believed, if he didn't choose the latter.) Silence drowned them both for the rest of the elevator ride which wasn't long at all. The box came to a slow stop and then a low bell sounded, followed by a feminine robotic voice announcing that they had reached the ground floor.

Francis said nothing—his condescending glare was enough to send his message across however—and stormed out of the elevator once the doors slid open, abandoning Arthur with his thoughts and his sin. He stayed put, watching in amazement as Francis's whole demeanor changed once he met Antonio and Emma by the front doors of the hotel. He only saw his backside, yet he could tell he was putting on a happy face for his friends because Antonio clapped him on the shoulder with a big smile on his lips and Emma gave him an energetic wave as he approached. It was as if their "little talk" never happened.

 _How does he do that?_ Arthur wondered in shock as Francis, Antonio, and Emma left the hotel (he took two steps out of the elevator to ponder this whole situation some more). _How does he completely lose his shit in one moment and then act as though he never lost it at all—and after something so dear to him…_

His gaze drifted to the tiled floor, looking without really seeing. With Elizabeth still lingering in the back of his mind, the story of Joan and Francis resurfaced and replayed like an old movie—it stirred up a range of emotions and made him remember how horrible things once were. He then compared their circumstances thoroughly, as if he were searching for some excuse or flaw in Francis's behavior (which he was, in a way).

Arthur saw Elizabeth the day she was born and stayed by her side until she drew her last breath; Francis only knew Joan for maybe two years. Disease and Catholic plots tried to take Elizabeth's life on more than one occasion; Joan made more enemies than she did friends, so her well-being was in constant danger. Elizabeth's love for England (and for Arthur) was apparent in everything she did: she showered him in philosophy, strength, unconditional support, and everlasting glory. She personally built the great golden stairs that he climbed so he could taste the heavens, touch the stars, and watch over all land and seas. He didn't have much to offer in return, but she never took it anyway—she always gave, never took.

Yet Francis had absolutely nothing but English-occupied Paris and panic-stricken citizens to give Joan and, in the end, she traded his life for hers. If Arthur had his way, then Francis would be dead and all his land would be his. But because Joan got involved, because she was better at her job than anyone else before her,[5] because Francis fell in love with her, she had to die. In French eyes, she always gave, never took, and for this she was murdered.

Francis was right—Arthur was the lucky one.

With his eyes casted downward and his legs moving as if he were walking through water, Arthur quietly gave his room key back to the woman behind the desk, dragged himself out of the hotel, and then called for a cab to take him to the nearest airport. Once he arrived there, he desperately skimmed the schedule for the next flight to London which, to his dismay, he discovered wouldn't be for another three days.

Distressed, he turned around with his head in his hands, ready to burst into a million pieces. _I can't keep putting up with this shit much longer,_ his mind panicked. _If I stay in this godforsaken country for another hour, I don't know what I'll do. I just need to leave here as soon as possible; I can't stay a moment longer. It's all too much. I don't want to feel like this anymore, like everything is my fault. How many memories must I endure before I am nothing at all?_

Just as his hands began to quake and his breath began to hitch, a painfully familiar voice loudly rang throughout the large airport: "Oi! I fuckin' knew it would be you! I should've bet money on it."

Arthur grimaced, lifting his face from his hands as Allister sauntered over his way. He was dressed casually with a loose grey T-shirt, a dark blue flannel with the sleeves rolled up, worn-out jeans, and heavy work boots. His hair looked damp as if he just stepped out of a shower and red scruff faintly traced his jawline and upper lip. He also carried a backpack that possessed many pockets and appeared more empty than it did full. Somedays it was hard to believe that he was the elder brother.

A couple of travelers peered at Allister as though they smelled something funny. Allister noticed their judgement and then waved them away like a swarm of fleas. "Sorry, I forgot Americans are sensitive to curse words."

Arthur sensed his headache sharpen as the Scotsman approached him. "What're you doing?"

"Saving you from further turmoil, little brother," he replied with an arrogant smirk. "I had a sneaking suspicion that it would be you this year, so I can't say I'm too surprised to see you here with your tail between your legs."

He raised an eyebrow in confusion. "What do you mean 'you knew it would be me?'"

Allister stared back with the same expression. "Have you never gone back to Britain with me after a world meeting?"

"Not unless it was planned ahead of time which I don't think it ever has been."

Allister blinked and then laughed. "Well, shit. Today is quite the milestone."

"I'm sure it would be if you'd fucking explain it to me."

His grin lingered as he did so, running a hand through his wet hair. "No personification in the British Isles likes going to world meetings, and yet someone always manages to forget how to get back home. Either someone gets drunk and forgets their flight, somehow loses their ticket altogether, or, like Séamus's case during the twenties,[6] can't even afford a ride. So, ever since the sixties, I've made it a habit to get a one-way ticket after every world meeting in case a brother should need it. And that happens to be you this year."

As Allister fished through the many pockets that made up his backpack, Arthur continued to gaze at him in disbelief, puzzled as to why he would do such a thing in the first place. "But…what if no one needs it?"

"Someone always needs it. If not a brother, then certainly another nation. I haven't wasted my money just yet." Allister then pulled out two tickets and handed one of them to Arthur. This particular flight was to take off in thirty minutes.

Arthur stared at the ticket. "This is scheduled for Edinburgh."

Allister snorted. "Did you seriously think I'd go to your capital just for fun or hope the person who got my second ticket really wanted to see Big Ben? No, I want people to be stuck in _my_ country while they figure out a way back to their own place."

A troubled sigh escaped him as he tried giving back the ticket. "Allister, I can't—"

"You can and you will." All in one motion, Allister pushed the slip of paper back into Arthur's palm, spun him around, and then slung his arm across his shoulders, guiding him toward the check-in counter.

"I saw you at the meeting," Allister went on, "totally distracted one hundred percent of the time which I thought was weird because you like being a smartass and pointing out things that no one gives a shit about—"

"Is there a point to this?"

"There's always a point to my stories. Anyway, because I can read your face like a book, I knew exactly what was keeping your attention and then figured you'd be flying back to Britain with me. I could see other nations asking you what's wrong and you wouldn't answer or wouldn't take their advice and then do something stupid."

When Arthur peered at his brother with a look of mild shock, Allister merely stated, "You're unbelievably predictable."

Arthur wiggled out of his grasp and began to panic all over again: "If you're just going to ridicule me, then you can take your extra plane ticket to somebody who can tolerate your bullshit—"

"Calm down, dumbass. I just wanna talk—"

"Apparently you and everyone else keep getting the definitions of 'talk' and 'rebuke' mixed up. Why must I feel guilty about everything that I do? Why can't you all just leave me alone?"

"Look, I'm sorry about all of this. I didn't—"

"Sorry about what, you prick?"

"I'm sorry I told the world about you and Elizabeth, alright? So, quit your moping already!"

Both nations halted in their tracks, greatly surprised by what slipped through Allister's lips. Arthur, frozen with bewilderment, almost didn't believe him. Why should he? There was no regret in his attitude and the subject of Elizabeth hardly ever came up in past discussions (much less his relationship with her), so what was with this sudden admission? But the longer he glared at his elder brother, the brighter his guilt became. He scrutinized the growing sentiment in his eyes as Allister explained himself.

"I was absolutely furious with you and, in my defense, I had every reason to be. Your people always had this overwhelming need to prove themselves better than everyone else, as if they weren't European at all. That increased dramatically once the Tudors took control of your kingdom; Henry VIII was the laughingstock in my country for much longer than he was alive. Not only was I annoyed by this 'self-worth policy' of yours, but how you sliced off Mary's head because of her power and then brought her son to your throne because of his power made me want to slice your head off. I really hated you at the time and when James asked about you and Elizabeth, I knew I had to get my revenge.

"No Scotsman realized you were lying, avoiding the question like the fucking plague which drove me up the fucking wall. I thought all my council members were complete idiots for buying your 'I'm-as-single-as-the-pope-and-as-clean-as-the-Virgin-Mary' act, but I reminded myself that they never met you before and you were my little brother—I knew you better than most. And so when we went to Paris for the first world meeting, I thought it would be a perfect place to spill your precious secret. But…the look on your face has haunted me for a very long time."

He sighed helplessly and motioned toward the check-in counter behind him. "It'll be easier to explain back home."

Arthur studied Allister like a bug under a microscope. His expression seemed genuine—his thin lips were tight in shame and his green eyes were locked onto his in seriousness. Although his body was as stiff as an old oak tree (a telltale sign that he was uncomfortable or was doing something he wasn't fond of), Allister was usually the first of the British Isles to admit whenever he failed. _But that doesn't mean he means it,_ Arthur tried to argue back. Yet that desperate air never wavered, and Arthur didn't have a legitimate excuse to distrust him right now.

He glanced down at the ticket in his hand and then back at Allister before mumbling out an agreement: "Why are you doing this?"

Allister grinned slightly. "Because you're my little brother—there's only so much pain I want to see you go through."

* * *

[1] London has a nasty habit of catching on fire. It goes way back to 60 AD during the Roman invasion when Queen Boudicca, ruler of the Iceni tribe, burned down the city to kick the Romans out. Apparently, the fire was so destructive that archaeologists regularly encounter a layer of harden ashes beneath London to this day. Other deadly fires include the Great Fire of Southwark in 1212 (which lasted two days and caused 3,000 deaths), the Great Fire of London in 1666 (lasted four days and caused six deaths), and the Second Great Fire of London in 1940 (lasted one night and caused 160 deaths).

[2] The Hundred Years War (which really lasted 116 years) was a special European war where the main opponents were England and France; they fought over the French throne after French king Charles IV died with no heir. A major English victory came out of this war (Battle of Agincourt in 1415), military tactics and technology improved greatly on both sides, and the war shaped the identities of both countries, neither completely forgetting about it. World War II French commander Charles de Gaulle once said: "Our greatest hereditary enemy was not Germany, it was England. From the Hundred Years War to Fashoda, she hardly ceased to struggle against us. She is not naturally inclined to wish us well." This goes to show how England and France still don't fully trust each other, even after 700 years of the war being over and both countries forming alliances in both of the bloodiest wars in human history. One of the biggest turning points in the war is when ya girl Joan of Arc stepped in and began winning back cities and land like crazy from the English, who naturally got pissed off that they were losing to a peasant girl from the middle of nowhere. Joan's execution rallied up the French even more and they eventually won back the majority of their land (including stuff that the English kept since the 1100s, long before the war even started). Although there wasn't an official or declared winner of the Hundred Years War (they both signed a treaty that basically said "can we agree to disagree?" and left it at that), historians agree that France should be the official winner of this bloody and incredibly long war. After all, if England won, we wouldn't be calling it France now—it'd be England Part 2.

[3] Life was terrible in the trenches during WWI, especially for the British and the French. Thousands of men were crowded into narrow tunnels in the ground while basically waiting to die via German machine guns and bombs. The Germans predicted that they would win the war through trench warfare and put more effort into making their trenches wide and comfy—they had rugs and electricity and some even had mini-fridges. The Brits and French, however, didn't plan on living in those hellholes and so everything was tight and muddy and filled with all sorts of diseases. When given orders to travel across No Man's Land (the open field between the German and British/French trenches), most saw this as a 99.9% chance of dying and thus prepared themselves for it. Some of their trenches were filled with little mementos that the men carried from home: lighters/packs of cigarettes, pictures of their wives, letters written for their families (essentially a suicide note), and necklaces with crosses on them. These things, I believe, made people realize for the first time that war was not "glorious" or necessary, but really just a way to kill lots of innocent and frightened people.

[4] I'm thrilled that the Hetalia fandom is growing aware and addressing one of the few similarities that France and England have in common. Joan of Arc and Elizabeth I would probably hate each other as much as France and England do if they ever met in real life: I mean, one was English, one was French; one was Protestant, the other Catholic; one a queen, one a peasant. But these two badass ladies also have a few things in common. They both were proclaimed virgins (Elizabeth with her firm decision on staying single in the international marriage market and Joan was proud of being such a thing, often calling herself "the Maid" which, in both Elizabeth and Joan's times, virginity was seen as sacred and holy). They both completely turned a war around (Elizabeth managed to avoid an invasion from the most powerful European empire at her time and Joan won back several French cities and won many battles against the winning English). They both gave up everything they had to protect/rule their country (Elizabeth gave up many personal wants or desires—yes, even the wish to marry for she was very fond of her childhood friend Robert Dudley—and Joan, as we all know, sacrificed herself to the flame for her country). They even "transformed" themselves into men, knowing that they lived in a man's world (Elizabeth often addressed the sexist comments by her own government and people, saying she was well aware of her position as a "weak and feeble woman" but promised her own strength and stubbornness to rule as if she were a king and Joan physically transformed herself by cutting her hair and only wearing men's attire—she thought she looked good in bejeweled jerkins that were made just for her and I absolutely love that). They are both seen as the best of the best and are still greatly admired today.

[5] The Hundred Years War had been going on for around 85 years when Joan entered the picture. England had been slowly taking over France over the years and was about halfway from claiming the whole of it. All within four months, Joan lifted the siege at Orléans, assisted in crowing Charles VII of France, and won back many French cities from English hands.

[6] Northern Ireland was largely ignored during the time between WWI and WWII. Although Northern Ireland was still more industrialized than Ireland was and refused to share its wealth with its neighbor, Northern Ireland's economy steadily declined after WWI. They couldn't keep up with the rest of Europe in the industry business and they were losing competition badly—after all, who wanted to trade with an isolated country that was mainly cold and wet all the time and only sold outdated products? Because of this, trade between Northern Ireland and Britain shuts down (from 1920-1939) and Northern Ireland is forced to buy goods from the soon-to-be Republic of Ireland (which was no better than their own stuff). Unemployment rate in Northern Ireland during this time was 30%, much worse than other places during the Great Depression around the world.


	22. Another Ghost

****I'm back with your monthly dose of pain and heartbreak.** **?** **Here's my excuse for not getting this done on time: I currently have an internship at a small historical museum that tells the daily lives of Americans throughout the 1800s. Of course my Hetalia inspiration is flying off the roof with little one-shots of Alfred doing his thing with the War of 1812 against England, westward expansion of the rest of the country, and his own civil war. So yeah that's been happening, but hope you bros enjoy this chapter!****

 _18 February 1431_

Arthur could hear the nasty taunts and deep chuckles grow as he climbed up the spiral staircase. The words themselves were overpowered by the sound of his own heavy boots and loose armor, only becoming clearer once he reached the top of the stairs: "You'd be a whole lot prettier if you'd just smile." "Do you know how much we paid for just to have you here?"[1] "You know there are other ways to get out that cell without having to jump out a window…"

He spotted five men gathered around a small cell, leering in as if the mythical Golden Fleece were sitting right in front of them. They gripped the iron bars and grinned slyly; some leaned their full bodies against the bars while others made very crude gestures toward the silent prisoner. Most of them harassed in English, but one spoke broken French—he apparently wanted the prisoner to hear and understand what he was trying to say.

Disgusted, Arthur stormed over to the nearest pervert and then rammed his fist into his nose. A small cracking noise followed and the short man tumbled backward; the others quickly jumped out of the way. The man moaned in pain as he slowly sat up, clutching his now bloody nose in his hands. "What in the—"

"Don't you pathetic lot have something better to do than wank off in front of a prisoner?" Arthur barked. He dismissed the dull ache in his knuckles and glared at the bunch menacingly. "You all have a higher chance of getting struck by lightning than anyone even being remotely interested in the size of your dick, so I suggest you children go out and reevaluate your sad little lives instead of wasting your time here."

At first, none of them moved; they merely gawked at Arthur as if he were a flickering shadow or a squeaking rat, nothing worth thinking about. He responded to their silence by shouting, "Now, you filthy animals! Begone with you!"

It was only then that the soldiers regained their sense of decency and scrambled for the staircase behind him. The sound of their rushing echoed loudly throughout the small tower; Arthur stayed still until all the ruckus had died down, until all he heard was his own breathing and the faint clinking of a leak somewhere nearby. He then stepped forward, faced the prison cell, and peered into its darkness.

The cell itself was smaller than he expected—only a lumpy mattress, a dirty bucket, and a tiny barred window near the ceiling adorned the place. A strong odor—a mix of urine and mold—wafted around the cell, nearly knocking him to the ground. The only source of light came from the minute window above (which obviously wasn't very much considering both the size of it and the grey winter sky outside) and the torch next to the cell only lit the narrow hallway, practically useless in Arthur's opinion.

He caught the outline of a short figure, however, sitting on the mattress with their eyes closed and their hands clasped together in prayer. At first glance, one could easily mistake her for a boy: her dark wavy hair was cut in the style of a typical knight and, although small, muscles shaped her arms and legs. She had very youthful features with those big eyes, full lips, and round cheeks; she appeared fifteen or sixteen, but Arthur figured she would be older than that. The old dress she wore was dirty and torn and a size too big for her—she would have to make a constant effort to adjust it. He also noticed the heavy chains around her wrists and ankles. For anyone who didn't know her, they would think this to be cruel as if she were a harmless rabbit being caged for hopping through a garden, but everyone here was aware of how dangerous this little girl could be.

He cleared his throat and called out to the prisoner, "I've heard many stories about you, Commander Joan."

The girl exhaled loudly, clearly frustrated. Without opening her eyes, she replied, "Je ne parle pas anglais."[2]

"Of course you don't," he mumbled to himself. He then repeated his statement in French.

Her eyelids slowly peeled open, revealing a pair of bright hazel irises. They were practically glowing like cat eyes in the dead of night. "I am no commander—I am but a maiden."

"A maiden with a thousand French troops behind her."

"I am only doing what God has commanded of me." As she said this, she carefully rose to her feet and shuffled over to face Arthur fully. The chains rattled as she went and she tugged at her sleeve to keep it from slipping. Blisters peeked from behind the thick chains, signs that she tried to escape from its cold, hard grip.

"Is that what you're calling it?" he asked her. "God's will?"

Joan stepped forward, staring intensely at him. "Who are you?"

"Someone who works closely with King Henry VI—the one true king of this land[3]—and I've been sent here to see the girl who's been causing so much trouble and to put a stop to it. Now if you—"

"Wait, I know you."

Annoyed by her interruption, he glared at her and shifted his weight onto one foot. "Do you now?"

"Yes." She pointed a finger at him as realization dawned on her facial features. "He warned me about you. You're Arthur Kirkland, the personification of England. You've personally led several of the war's campaigns, you're a highly skilled archer and a talented swordsman, and you spend more time in Paris than you do in your own country."

He blinked in mild surprise. "Impressive. I'm assuming Francis Bonnefoy told you those vague details? Or was it God?"

Joan didn't answer right away. Instead, she lumbered toward him as far as the chains would allow her. Eyes wide, lips ajar, she stared at him as if he were the nefarious dragon that she, the noble knight, must slay in order to free the manly damsel in distress from further harm.

The dragon peered back at the knight. "Is there something on your mind, maiden? You appear rather desperate."

A slight shake of the head. "Are you even aware of the damage you've created?" she whispered in disbelief. "Do you know what you've done to him, all the pain you've caused him?"

She suddenly sprang, flinging her arms up at him, her hands shaped into claws. With the chains' restrictions around her little wrists, her arms only came up to elbow length and were a foot away from the iron bars between them.

" _You're killing him!_ " she shouted with such anger, such fear for her beloved country. Her eyes narrowed into slits and she bared her teeth like a lioness, ready to tear out his throat.

Arthur hardly moved when he said, "That's been the plan for quite a while."

She dropped her arms along with her jaw, clearly shocked by his words. "How can you think like that? If you kill him, you kill the people of France as well. The hate you carry for the French spirit is overwhelming and absurd; we will never become the English people you want us to be. I would rather die than become anything like you or your people."

"With your attitude and that loud mouth of yours, you won't have to wait much longer."

"Why are you doing this? It cannot be because of who and who doesn't have the rightful place on the French throne. This war has been going on for far too long for politics anymore. Do you have a personal vendetta for Francis?"

"I came to ask you that same question: why are _you_ doing this? The battlefield is no place for a woman, especially one as young as you. War is complicated and bloody and, most of the time, unfair. Why are you allowing yourself to be tossed around by history when you could be safe in your village back home?"

"God wanted me to free Francis, to free all of France from your clutches. That is why I am here."

Arthur rolled his eyes. _She's going to be a pain in the ass in court,_ he huffed.

Joan straightened her spine and held her chin up high. "It would be best if you surrendered now. Save yourself the trouble that is to come."

He couldn't help but to burst out laughing, though it was short and not as loud as he expected it to be. "Are—are you hearing yourself right now? Look where you are, maiden. You are France's only hope and now you are behind English bars. One more wrong move and then it's all over; everything you've accomplished will be taken away. It would be wise if _you_ surrendered, maiden. If you do what they tell you to, your sentence won't be as horrible as you may think it is. I cannot sway their motives or words, only you can. So if you agree to their terms and stop this whole God-told-me-to-beat-the-English act, then you just might escape death and live the rest of your life."

She glared. "I cannot do that. Believe what you will, but God gave me this mission and I intend to finish it, one way or another. So don't ask for forgiveness at my grave when you lose your land and men on account of the French spirit. I tried to warn you, but if you want trouble, then let it come forth." She paused. "He's coming for me, you know. It's only a matter of time."

He glared back. "Why? Because you told him to?"

"No, because I told him not to." Her eyes fell upon the lit torch beside Arthur, deep in thought. "For a while, I knew I may die—you're right when you say war is complicated and bloody and unfair. I've seen too much of it for the short time I've been here; I can only imagine the horrors you and Francis have seen throughout your immortal lives. I told Francis shortly before I was captured that I may die in the near future. Naturally, he didn't believe me, as most men don't. He said he would protect me at all costs even if it killed him, but I said his life was more important than mine. God wanted _me_ to protect _him_. God clearly has plans for him, especially if He sent a sixteen-year-old girl from the middle of nowhere with no military experience to save his life." She chuckled at her own joke and then rambled on some more.

"I told him that if anything should happen to me, he should not follow after me. His life is too precious, and he was so close to death already that I feared one more push would stop his heart once and for all. But Francis can be too stubborn sometimes and he firmly insisted that he would come running for me, no matter the cost." A slight smile shaped her chapped lips. "Francis is kind and patient and loyal and trustworthy, but he is also very stupid and lets his heart get the best of him." She looked back to Arthur, her smile now gone. "He's coming for me, and he's bringing hellfire with him."

Arthur absorbed her words and then leaned forward slightly. "If he wanted to free you, he would've been here by now. He would've been at the Burgundians' door the moment you were taken if he wanted you at all. You've been away from him for nearly a year now and still no sign of him. I'm not positive if you know this one, maiden, but a country must always obey his ruler before he should obey anybody else, including his own free will. I guess technically he did listen to you if you told him to stay away from you. But either way, if Charles didn't give the command, then Francis never left in the first place. Your country, your people, your king, your _lover_ does not care for you anymore; you only have yourself to defend now."

A small tear glistened within her right eye, but Joan never slumped her shoulders or shrank away or curled herself into a little ball, letting his words sink into her skin and make its way into her brain. Her spine was still straight and her chin was still high; confidence, it seemed, hardly left her side.

Arthur leaned back and then added, "I wholeheartedly suggest you do whatever the judges ask of you during your trial. If you want to live, then do just that. I hate seeing young people seal their own fate in such a way, I really do. I know you have much to live for, so don't throw it all away by letting your ego get in the way of things." He turned on his heel. "You will be seeing me in court, maiden. Make these few weeks count."

He was well down the stairs when he heard chains rattle, skin slapping stone, and furious screaming from above.

Joan's trial lasted a lot longer than he thought, mainly due to her inflexibility to answer questions and her endless supply of witty remarks to throw people back in their places. Everyone was getting frustrated with her and they practically pleaded with her to answer simple inquiries like what her full name was. (She strictly wanted to be called Joan the Maid or the just the Maid.) Time dragged on and, realizing that they were going nowhere, the judges finally threatened her with death unless she did two things: to stop donning men's attire and to admit that she never heard the voices of Saint Margaret, Saint Catherine, and Michael the Archangel in her head. Joan must've known that her options were very limited and, with a heavy heart, did as they asked.

A few days later, he went with Bishop Cauchon[4] to Joan's cell to check and see if she was living up to her word. He heard loud arguing as they climbed the staircase and both men sighed heavily at the noise. _What has she gotten herself into this time?_

Once they reached the top step, they found two guards facing the iron bars and yelling into the cell; Joan's sharp voice snapped right back at them. Both guards spoke perfect French, so whatever was being argued wasn't just a misunderstanding of languages.

Arthur pulled the guards back. "Silence yourselves, for the love of God! What is it _this_ time?"

But once he and Cauchon peered in, they knew what the problem was.

There the maiden sat in the middle of her cell, wearing a long-sleeved shirt, tight black trousers, and thigh-high boots.

"Maiden," Cauchon said in a dangerously calm voice, "what are you wearing?"

Joan glared at him with an arrogant air. "My clothes."

"But they're not women's clothes, are they? I thought we agreed that you'd go back to wearing dresses and skirts, things a woman must wear."

She shook her head. "I've never enjoyed wearing such things. It's easier to run and jump in trousers. If you really want me to wear a dress, then tell your guards to stop letting themselves and other men into my cell and try to see what is up my skirts."

Cauchon merely blinked at her, but Arthur groaned loudly and turned to the nearest guard. "What the fuck is wrong with all of you?" he demanded. "The whole bloody point of being a guard is to not let people in or out of a designated spot; you both failed terribly at that and should be terminated. _And_ you have the indecency to try and take advantage of a prisoner when you're not supposed to have any sort of contact with her, _especially_ physical. You both have also failed at being respectful human beings and, frankly, I firmly believe you should be castrated."

"Sir England, please calm down."

"Well, it's clear that the prisoner wouldn't have to protect herself by wearing trousers if these morons didn't violate their duties. It is the guards who must be punished—"

"Maiden." Cauchon's call was sharp and loud enough to overpower Arthur's ranting. "What have you to say about your voices? Do you still hear them?"

Joan hesitated only for a moment before stating firmly, "Yes, I do. They have never left me during my time of trial, nor will they ever abandon me for as long as I shall live."

The hall was silent, but not for long. Arthur sighed in disappointment again as he pitched the bridge of his nose while Cauchon stated, "Well, that's a real shame." But judging by his expressionless gaze and bleak tone, he didn't feel the least bit sorry for Joan.

He turned to Arthur. "She has violated her own contract; she has agreed to her own death sentence. We must present the consequences as soon as possible." He said this all in English so the prisoner in front of them couldn't understand the details of her doomed fate. He then glanced at the two guards and waved them off. "You may go now."

Puzzled, they descended the stairs, their armor clinking together as they went. Arthur ran a hand down his face. _What sickening animals they are._

"Are you having second thoughts, Sir England?" Cauchon asked in the same emotionless voice as before. "This girl has ignored the requirements of the agreement she signed only a few days prior. Not only has she dress herself in men's attire, but she just claimed that she has never stopped hearing those voices—"

"Yes, I know. You don't have to repeat the events I just witnessed."

"I feel as though I must because you suddenly seem very defensive of the maiden's destiny."

Arthur frowned and crossed his arms. "I have no tolerance for sexual predators."

He swore he saw a subtle eye roll from the bishop, although it was hard to tell with those naturally drooping eyelids of his. "If it so pleases you, the current guards will be removed from their positions. They won't be needed for much longer, anyway."

"I am also hesitant because I have a difficult time believing that this child committed such crimes—"[5]

"She is a child of the devil!" Cauchon snapped. "If we don't act soon, who knows what that little witch will do next!"

Arthur turned his attention to Joan while Cauchon rambled angrily at him. She sat in the middle of that tiny cell with those huge chains clinging to her wrists and every button and ribbon tied on her boyish outfit. Her eyes were closed and her hands were clasped in prayer, her lips silently moving as she spoke with God. Dark bags hung beneath her eyes, her skin was a sickly white color, and her bones were much smaller than when she first came here. Joan was sick and tired and, Arthur truly believed, she was innocent.

He didn't hate her, not by a long shot. He didn't want to see her suffer, to see her fall apart like what so many tried to do to her during court. He did find her immensely annoying, however, like that persistent flea that won't leave you alone. She created a great shift in the war and for the first time in a long time, France had the upper hand, so naturally he wanted her out of the picture. But that didn't mean death; he'd rather her be back in her little farm with her little family than to be amongst the ruins of fallen cities and picking dead bodies from the bloody ground. Arthur wanted the war to be over, but for it to be in his hands—he'd come so far and now he was beginning to lose it all. Not only would he get what he wanted, but Joan would not be facing the flames in such a horridness way and Francis wouldn't have fallen hopelessly in love again. Things would be better for everyone if she never came at all.

But here they were, losing so much in the matter of moments, and nothing could reverse the situation now. Arthur's words would always be useless against the mortals and it seemed like only they alone could make or break their decisions. And so he played his duty of standing off to the side and letting things slip by.

He wasn't present when they told her that she was to die by the stake in a couple days, but he heard the rumors that she supposedly cried out that she was a virgin, a vain last attempt to save herself. And when no man yielded, she finally broke down and swallowed herself up in tears.

She was burned on the sunny morning of 30 May 1431 in the market-square of Rouen. As men piled sticks all around the poor girl, she struggled against the chains that held her torso and legs to the stake, crying softly. Arthur was surprised and a bit appalled to find no bondage around her arms or throat—these men clearly wanted her to suffer.[6] A large gathering of English soldiers circled the stake although no one appeared particularly ecstatic to be there. Two priests stood in front of them all, each holding a meter-tall crucifix that they were to raise over the flames (all upon Joan's request).

Just before the masked executioner could touch the awaiting firewood and bundles of hay with his burning torch, Arthur stepped onto the platform and stood beside Joan as he read aloud the "crimes" she committed. Some men glared or scoffed at the terrified girl when he mentioned that she was a convicted witch, but none threw nasty insults at her or cheered for her upcoming death. They were simply tired or didn't care for her sake. In an odd way, Arthur was relieved for their reactions.

When he was finished, he folded the paper and tucked it into his vest. He then faced Joan, looked into her watery eyes, and said, "May God have mercy upon your soul."

She stared back at him and, to Arthur's surprise, whispered, "Et peut-il un jour pardonne-vous."[7]

He wasn't sure if that was a genuine statement or an underlining threat, but he walked off the platform as if it were the latter.

And with that, the executioner let the torch lick the dry hay and wood around the little girl before throwing it into the hungry flames. The fire grew fast, greedily eating everything within its path, munching loudly like a famished dog. The priests in front raised their golden crucifixes once Joan started screaming, serving as her only form of comfort now. Arthur didn't want to watch, but he couldn't tear his eyes away. He saw her struggle against the red-hot chains against her skin, searing away the linen dress she wore. Her shaved head thrashed against the post behind her, her lips curled back in agonizing screams, wet lines stained her dirty cheeks as heavy tears slipped from her eyes like waterfalls. He heard her cry out names: Archangel Michael, Saint Catherine, Saint Margret, the names of her siblings, her mother and father, and she even sobbed out Francis's name. But when none of them came to save her, she settled on crying for Jesus until she grew silent.

When Arthur thought she was dead, he peeked over the flames to see her badly burned face not casted downwards, but aimed straight ahead as if she were watching something in the distance. Her eyes were wide and her lips were trying to form words but, alas, her lips were gone—there was only a flabby piece of flesh now. Arthur grew frightened and whipped his head in the direction she was looking. Whatever had caught her attention was quite some distance away because he could only see the roofs of shops and the bellowing grey smoke overhead. When he turned back to Joan, there was a small but identifiable look of satisfaction on her face (or what remained of it) as if whatever or whoever she saw had somehow tamed her fear, allowing death to finally catch up with her. That look stayed until her eyes glazed over and her head tilted back against the post.

The flames stayed alive a little while longer, but they too eventually fell away, and once they did, almost every man in the crowd wore an expression of remorse or shock. Some covered their mouths with a trembling hand while others whispered, "This woman was really a godly woman" or "I can only pray that I will go to the heaven that she went to when I die." Arthur, to say the least, carried the same guilt and fear in his heart as he walked back onto the platform to place more firewood around the godly woman.

He knelt down to put a couple more logs at Joan's almost skeletal feet in hopes of burning the rest of her faster so he could get away from here. He straightened back up, but accidentally bumped into the post she was tied to and her upper torso made a horrible cracking sound as she halfway fell toward him. He stifled a gasp as he scrambled away, the look of her blackened skin, lipless mouth, and hollow eyes filling his vision. For a moment, she really did look like a witch and the last words she uttered to him disturbed him even more: _And may he one day forgive you._

She was burned two more times until all remained of her was black ash. At least that was what was _supposed_ to be left of her. As Arthur and the executioner pushed away the last of the stakes and gathered up the piles of ash around the foot of the post, they both noticed something odd. Two small lumps of red meat sat by where Joan's feet once were.

"What are those?" the executioner asked him.

Arthur peered down at them and then recognized the awkward shape of a liver and the many valves and arteries that made up a human heart.[8] He quickly began collecting the rest of the ashes, mumbling, "Pick those up. We're going to throw them in the Seine."

"But what are—"

"Just do it."

A pause. "Yes, Sir England."

And that's what they did. The night sky had replaced the morning sun when they tossed Joan's remains (ashes, liver, and heart) into the running Seine. Some men watched the river carry them away, but Arthur couldn't stand this much longer and stormed away, fright and guiltiness powering his legs. He needed out of this square, out of this city; he needed to be anywhere but here. Some rational part of him told him that he was being paranoid, but that part was tucked away somewhere in the back of his mind and he didn't give it another chance to speak.

He watched his feet march away from the cobblestone streets and enter the grassy fields of a nearby patch of woods. He heard the rumbling of a distant thunderstorm approaching and the lapping of the Seine river beside him. Images of Joan's fleshless face flashed before his eyes, but he squeezed his eyes shut and tried shaking it away. He stopped abruptly and clutched at himself. He felt unclean as if he just walked through a rainstorm of blood. He felt the overwhelming urge to wipe it all away, to tear apart at his own flesh to be rid of this horrible stain that would take a lot more than a bath in the river to wash it away. That's what Joan felt like to him: a deep stain, stitches in his skin, a ghost in his mind. How could he be rid of her if she was now a permanent memory?

He inhaled and exhaled deeply before opening his eyes again. He slowly looked up from his boots and scanned the dark horizon around him. He noticed a storm hovering on the left side, gradually making its way to him. The right side was clear of any rainclouds, but, upon closer inspection, he saw a figure standing in the shore of the Seine.

His eyes narrowed in on the figure and his ears perked up at the faint sobbing he heard coming from them. The person appeared a little taller than him and their hair and clothes were drenched in river-water as if they'd been going for an evening swim. He spotted a satchel across their chest that was practically bulging with all sorts of provisions unbeknownst to him. They were also holding something small in their hands, cradling it as if it were a newborn baby.

Arthur's senses zoomed in closer, attempting to uncover this figure's identity and intentions. He listened to them weep; his heartbroken moans could easily be mistaken for the painful cries of a wounded animal. He also heard the French words for "I'm sorry" and "my angel" being repeated over and over again. This man was cloaked in darkness, yet his long blond locks still shone brighter than the sun. His bare hands trembled, but he was careful with the small black lump in his palms. Arthur's eyes widened in sudden recognition: he watched Francis Bonnefoy as his tears fell and a million apologizes slipped from his lips, his thumbs gently stroking the dead heart's arteries in hopes of bringing life back into it, to bring his precious angel back to him.

Arthur took a step back without taking his eyes off Francis, wishing to disappear into the darkened woods behind him and to never see this broken man ever again. But, ever since Joan came along, nothing had gone according to plan. He ended up stepping on a tiny stick and it snapped loudly as a result. At the unexpected sound, Francis's head shot up like an eagle and his gaze locked onto Arthur's.

For a long moment, nothing happened. Francis only stared at him and Arthur remained frozen where he was, too afraid to move. From what he could tell, Francis's expression didn't change and, for some reason, that fueled Arthur's fear even more. _What is he doing?_ his head pounded. _Shouldn't he be yelling or trying to stab me or collapse in a puddle of tears? He's simply standing there like a lost deer. I…I killed Joan, for God's sake! He should be raising hellfire like she told me he would!_

His body tensed when Francis finally did move, but it was slow and dragging. He looked back down at Joan's heart in his hands and then undid a button on the cover of his satchel. He pulled out an oversized rag, cautiously wrapped it around her heart, and gingerly placed it back in the bag before snapping its button back into place. He shifted the bag around so that it was positioned behind him and then he dragged his feet across the way to confront Arthur.

A low rumble of thunder sounded in the distance and the occasional raindrop would hit Arthur's head. He now shook from the powerful beating of his own heart, dread taking hold of his body. Without another thought, he reached back into the sack he always carried around with him and pulled out his bow and arrow. He positioned the arrow and tugged back on the string, but did not fire. Instead, he watched Francis through the rain, waiting for him to make his move.

"Surrender now, France!" he called out to him. "Admit you've lost and that you will finally submit to English rule!"

But Francis said nothing as he stared Arthur down, inching closer and closer to him.

He gritted his teeth. "This war has gone on for far too long. Only one of us can keep on going and you can barely stand up straight. Just give in and make it easy on us all."

Nothing still. The overflowing sorrow and emptiness in Francis's eyes were starting to take its toll on Arthur.

"Stop, France! End it all right here, right now! The pain will go away soon…"

Francis paused, standing only a few inches from the tip of his arrow aimed at his forehead. Now that he was only a foot away from him, Arthur could see his physical condition: he looked like shit, but a hell of a lot better than he did a few years ago. A large scar ran from his hairline down to his right cheekbone, slicing his eyebrow in half and his right eye could barely open all the way. His lips were cracked and bleeding a little and he noticed a split in his skin near his collarbone—someone did a poor job of stitching it back together but there it was. He was awfully skinny—he probably skipped a bunch of meals so his soldiers could eat—and he was standing awkwardly as if it pained him to stand firmly on both his feet. His pinkie finger on his left hand was gone and shades of purple caked his knuckles. But nothing looked as bad as the grief-stricken expression he wore on his face.

Arthur pursed his lips. "I'm serious, Francis. End it all."

Francis leaned forward so that the tip of Arthur's shaky arrow was digging into the middle of his pale forehead. "Why don't you?" he mumbled in French. "You're awfully close."

Arthur stepped back again, but kept his arrow trained on his lifelong enemy. "'I surrender.' I want to hear you say it."

The rain fell faster and another bolt of lightning brightened the night sky. Francis slowly shook his head, a slight smile framing his bleeding lips. "You're wrong, you know. The pain never goes away; you just keep on making room for it." He stared into space and rambled quietly. "I sometimes wish I never cared at all. Perhaps then the pain wouldn't be as bad as it is now. But I just can't. I can't help falling in love with everyone I see because human beings are the most beautiful creatures this cold, dark world has to offer, even if they make bad decisions. But she was something entirely different."

Rain poured from the sky and Arthur had to strain to hear Francis's mumbling. "She wasn't a human being, she was an angel, one that God sent for me. Not a day went by when she didn't tell me that she would protect me from all harm. What a funny thing to say, I thought, considering it took her a few days just to hold a sword correctly and she was so small, the same height as a twelve-year-old boy. But she never failed me, she never lied or hurt or betrayed me, yet I did all those things to her. I sometimes think it was a cruel punishment for God to send her to me; how could she be so determined and persistent to save someone as weak and dumb and haughty as I? She only had goodness in her soul." He glanced at Arthur again. "And, like Jesus Christ, she was murdered because of that goodness."

Arthur swallowed thickly. "I couldn't let her get in my way. I was so close and she was pulling everything from right beneath my feet."

Francis's breathing became heavy and his eyes narrowed and his hands slowly curled into fists. His next set of words were pronounced clearly and in English, so Arthur could perfectly understand the sincerity in them: "I completely, truly, and unconditionally _hate you_."

They shouldn't have pained him so, but they did. Francis didn't hate anybody; he just said he fell in love with everybody he saw. To hear him say that he loathed Arthur with such honesty in his tone definitely struck a cord within him.

"I hate you, Arthur Kirkland. I wish you were dead and all your people could suffer like how mine have. I want to see you burn like how she did, to see the flesh melt from your skin and your blood bubble from the heat of the flames and to hear you scream as loud as the rain before us! You don't deserve the right to walk among the earth anymore! Your country should drown and save you for last so you can hear each one of them cry and know there's nothing you can do to save them! _You unworthy piece of shit! You evil demon from the deepest pit of hell! I hate you, I hate you, I hate you!"_

Out of pure terror, Arthur released his arrow at the thing in front of him, but Francis was surprisingly quick, shoving his bow out of the way—the arrow disappeared into the black sky and a blast of thunder rolled throughout the mountains as it did. They both fell to the muddy ground below; Arthur tried using his bow as a sort of wall between them, but Francis grabbed at it and attempted to rip it out of his hands. They struggled for a while—Arthur kicked Francis's bad leg and Francis pushed down his weight on the wooden bow. It eventually snapped in two; Francis yanked it out of his hands and threw it into the darkness.

He then slammed his fists against Arthur's face, throat, and chest—each hit was swift yet strong. Even though the blows caused powerful agonies to rip through his body, it must've pained Francis even more so with those bruised and swollen knuckles from some past conflict. Arthur tried to fight back in any way possible: punching at his arms, catching his fists, dodging his attacks. Francis kept pounding away, however; his only goal in mind was to beat Arthur senseless, but the concept seemed to reverse back on him.

"I hate you, I hate you! I wish you were dead!" he screamed like a child with tears in his throat. He had lost control and God only knew when he'd regain himself again. He shrieked and clawed and seized and broke. It was as if he were a rabid dog tearing apart some unprepared and terrified animal. This poor little animal didn't know how long the beating continued nor how severe the damage was, but he was aware of one thing: he deserved every bit of it.

Francis's fists slowed down and his breathing grew heavy. He eventually stopped, stared at Arthur for a while, and then got back on his feet. Arthur attempted the same thing, but his head felt heavier than an execution block and so he dropped back to the ground with a low whimper—he was back in his place among the rain, dirt, and blood.

Another flash of lightning lit up the black sky; the rain continued to fall as if every angel in heaven were crying. Peeking through the agony, Arthur saw blood spattered across Francis's hands and wondered who's it was. Francis watched the rain patter over the Seine—it was hard to predict what his next set of actions would be. He was stuck between mourning and enacting revenge. Years seemed to pass by when his watery gaze finally turned back to him.

So much fury and sorrow radiated from his body that it was contagious to all life around him. Although his eyes were as narrow and sharp as daggers, tears flowed freely just like the Seine behind him. His lips were tight, his fists shook terribly, and his chest rose and fell with each heavy breath he took. Who knew this man could be capable of carrying so much hate when he was known for giving love?

"What am I going to do with you?" he growled through his teeth. "If only your stone heart could stop beating and your ice-cold blood could cease to flow, then I'd already have your brains scattered among the dirt. But death would be too easy, wouldn't it? You'd escape the guilt and pain here on earth—you must suffer from the consequences."

His voice cracked and his face crumbled as he clutched the sides of his head, crying hysterically. "Why would you kill her like that? She was an angel— _my_ angel—and you threw her into the flames of hell without a second thought. Oh, I can still hear her screams and smell her scorching flesh! If I'd only arrived sooner—" He was cut off by his own sobbing, but he tried swallowing it down and grabbing ahold of himself once more. "It would be easier to submit, however, to die. Death is so near that I can feel its breath on the back of my neck. I considered giving up so many times, but Jeanne always told me to never surrender…never…"

He stared pass the raindrops and the tears, caught in some memory that contained an answer he'd been searching for. Arthur felt another surge of blood rush out of his nose, wincing in pain as Francis once again turned to him with a look of furious determination.

"I will win this war, you fucking disgrace," he barked loudly and clearly, through the raging storm overhead. "I don't care how long it takes nor what I have to do in order to achieve victory. If I must single-handedly kill the rest of your men, then so be it. My sole purpose is to ensure my success in this war and your miserable defeat in it. I promise to never give up this fight until all my land is mine once again and every single Englishman is either dead or back across the channel." He swallowed an upcoming sob as best he could—a small choking sound escaped his throat. "All this will be done under her name, for it won't go wasted."

"Francis, listen." Arthur struggled to sit up, grunting in pain as he did so. His head was throbbing and it hurt to move his lips, but he had to get his point across. He looked up at him and shook his head. "She was a godly woman, holy in every way. She had requested that two priests should be present at her burning and were to hold crucifixes so she could see them above the flames—her love for God was true and pure. She used her last breath to call out Jesus's name and…she stunned everyone in the crowd. I thought it was an act, but it clearly wasn't and I see that now. She was God's messenger, an angel li-like you said."

He meant to say more, but the sudden sharp pain thrusting its way into his abdomen took away the rest of his pleads. Francis, seemingly out of nowhere, had pulled out a short dagger and pierced his stomach with no hesitation. He could feel his own blood exiting out of him and the dull metal sit inside him, waiting for him to move in the slightest and tear at something. He stared at Francis's deep frown and hurricane gaze with his own frightened eyes, his throat choking on the words and the apologizes he owed him.

"You should've realized that earlier, you devil," Francis snarled before he rammed the dagger further in.

Arthur gave a short scream and grabbed the handle before his skin swallowed that too. Francis stomped away, leaving him for dead (at least for a little while) and Arthur didn't even try to draw him back—there was absolutely nothing he could do now. The damage had been done and it had been great. His fingers shook violently as he slowly pulled the dagger out of himself and dropped it into his lap. His body heavy with agony and exhaustion, he fell back onto the muddy ground and let his blood soak the grass around him. It drained quickly and the only thing he could do was hold in his intestines as best he could and watch the thunderstorm crack and boom above him.

 _The thunderstorms here are of a different kind_ , he thought aimlessly. _Unlike home, where they are frequent and drag on for days on end, the storms here have purpose, have meaning. I've never seen a thunderstorm quite this angry before._

His thoughts lingered on this idea and before he knew it, darkness had clouded his vision and all his senses were gone. He then woke up hours later in the bright morning sun and the calm Seine swimming in front of him. He slowly sat up and looked down at himself. Francis's dagger was still beside him, but the hole in his stomach was gone as was all the cuts and bruises and marks he left on his face and chest. Dark blood and rain sodden his clothes, but no physical pain remained. His body was new once again.

Arthur looked at the market-square of Rouen ahead and cried.

* * *

[1] On 24 May 1430, Joan was captured by the Burgundians which was a separate part of France who worked with or were in favor of the English during the Hundred Years War (Burgundy would later become a part of France again shortly after the war). She was kept in their captivity for almost a year because she kept on escaping and then being recaptured and put in another prison; the Burgundians weren't sure what to do with her, for many of them did like her and considered returning her to the French—Jeanne de Béthune, the wife of John II of Luxembourg (the one who wanted to keep Joan as a prisoner) admired France's savior and repeatedly begged her husband to let her go. But he apparently couldn't resist the cost that the English offered to the Burgundians for Joan; they paid 10,000 gold livres for her. (That's $12,657 in American money and €11, 320 in Euros—the British pound would be the same thing since livre is pound in French and it was modelled after the English currency during that time so trading would be easier.)

[2] French translation: "I don't speak English."

[3] In 1420, the Treaty of Troyes was signed between English King Henry V and French King Charles VI. Henry had won several campaigns against the French during his reign, conquering more and more of its land. This treaty said that all of Henry's descendants were to be the official kings of France AND England and that his son, Henry VI (who was two at this time), would be engaged to Charles's daughter Catherine, a way of tying the two countries together. The French really had no choice but to sign this: they were beaten to a bloody pulp and had no one else to turn to. Because of this, Charles VI's son, Charles VII, (damn, you guys, can't you pick other names for your children?) would be removed as heir to the French throne. When Joan stepped up ten years later, Charles VII was officially crowned the King of France which made the English realize they had a serious problem on their hands.

[4] Joan's trial was controlled by the Church, not the State, so the judges were mainly made up of bishops like this motherfucker. Pierre Cauchon, Bishop of Beauvais was a supporter of the English activity in France and was Joan's main antagonist in her trials. He often took what she said and twisted her words around and then throw it back in her face, trying to catch her off guard or stumble over what she claimed to be true. Soon enough the evidence he brought to the court were more biased than factual. Joan couldn't protect herself much longer when she was arguing with the Church's opinions (rather than actual evidence) and her lack of resources like access to other churches, advance notice of what was to be discussed in court, and, on the side, she was exhausted and in ill health and tired of pushing back her English guards who tried on multiple accounts to sexually abuse or rape her.

[5] When Joan was first put on trial, she had 70 charges over her head, though as time worn on, she ended up with 12. Among them included witchcraft, heresy, and the oh-so-terrible crime of dressing like a man (the reason why Joan wore men's clothes all the time was because she was deathly afraid of being raped or sexually abused—she even wore several layers and heavy fabric around her French soldiers and her English guards were actually _insulted_ whenever she pushed them back; it was more common for women to submit to men rather than fight back, so Joan's actions at the time were definitely surprising to everybody). A common misunderstanding is that Joan was executed for witchcraft—technically she was burned for wearing men's clothes and going against her former statement of never hearing her voices in the first place. But witchcraft was such a huge deal in the medieval ages; if anything went wrong, you could blame it on the devil and it'd be a valid response. People who were convicted of being witches (which were mostly women) were almost always killed immediately because nobody wanted to get involved with that shit and it was an easy way to get rid of someone you had a beef with. This was one of the reasons why Charles VII refused to send help Joan's way: he either didn't want to be seen as someone who would help a witch or he honestly thought she was one despite all the godly miracles she created.

[6] Sometimes when people were sentenced to burn at the stake, the executioner would be given a choice to strangle them before they actually set the stake on fire. This was seen as a merciful way of dying because death by fire is just the worst. The condemned were also tied up with ropes which were easily flammable and could get the job done quicker. Joan wasn't given any of these little merciful choices to help lessen her suffering. She had metal chains around her which wouldn't melt away as easily as normal rope and because her arms and throat were free, she couldn't swiftly die before being set on fire. Joan died with every ounce of pain imaginable.

[7] French translation: "And may he one day forgive you."

[8][8] I've read in a few reports that some men saw a liver and a heart among Joan's ashes once they were done burning her and I found this to be extremely fascinating. Of course, people found this to be proof of witchcraft, but today we might call this a strange case of spontaneous human combustion (SHC). The name alone sounds weird and the cases that follow it are just as so. People have been found completely disintegrated, but with an arm or foot lying by, completely untouched by this unexpected fire. Cases say that sometimes the person wasn't even externally on fire and it came from somewhere within them. This also goes vice versa. People were externally on fire, but some of their inward remains (most likely a liver or kidney) was completely untouched by the fire. I thought the concept was incredibly fascinating and wanted to add it in my story—with a fictional twist, of course! (If you guys know anything about this, please leave me a comment on what you know. I'd LOVE to learn more about this.)


	23. Where to Go from Here

****It's July so you know what that means: every country is having their national holiday! Happy birthday, Canada, America, Northern Ireland, France, Bahamas, Belarus, Colombia, Egypt, Mongolia, and Peru! (Sorry for anyone else I forgot.) Let's celebrate their independence from Britain, Spain, and France with this new chapter I just posted! Huzzah!****

 _31 March 2017_

As soon as the plane landed in Edinburgh, Arthur thanked Allister for the free ride home, grabbed his things, and then asked him where the nearest train station was located. His brother frowned and shook his head, clearly insulted. "Do you ever listen to me?" he growled. "Like, seriously? I just fuckin' apologized for perhaps your weakest nerve _and_ gave you my other ticket when I could've given it to some homeless guy who knows how to not take things for granted."

Arthur knew he wouldn't let the stupid plane ticket go that easily and, even though he was intrigued by Allister's earlier confession, all he wanted to do was go home, lay down, and sleep his headache away. But judging by the fierce glare his brother was giving him, he figured he would be saving himself a bigger headache by simply going wherever Allister wanted him to go, to hear whatever it is he wanted to say. Arthur considered his surroundings as a last attempt of possible escape, but there was no place to run to. He resisted an excessive eye-roll and agreed to follow him.

They ended up at Quiraing in the Isle of Skye which pissed Arthur off immensely for many reasons. One: Allister took him to the nearest train station (after he inquired about it not ten minutes earlier) and then purchased tickets for a destination that was another five hours away _and_ in the opposite direction of London. Two: Once they arrived, he continued following his brother to a nearby hotel where Allister apparently knew the owner very well. He managed to get them a room (just the one), but Allister only allowed themselves enough time to place their things by the door before taking off once more. Then they hiked along the rocky summit for what seemed like hours. Three: Allister did all of this with a stupid little smirk on his face.

"Why are we doing this?" Arthur panted. "Where the hell are we going?"

"To the mountains, obviously. If you want, we can turn around and talk about your dead wife in public; it's never too late to quit your complaining and do as I say, you know."

"Fuck off, you prick." He took off his jacket and rolled up his sleeves. "A warning that we were going hiking would've been nice; I would've changed clothes."

"Well, it's your own fault for wearing a suit two days in a row. Who fucking wears those things on a fucking normal day? They're so stiff and itchy…"

Allister then ranted about the uncomfortableness of business suits and the lack of faeries in Quiraing (which was why he visited often). He must've known, however, that Arthur was in too terrible a mood to listen to anything, so he served as background noise, something Arthur could vaguely concentrate on instead of falling into deadly silence where depressing thoughts lingered.

The brothers marched on until no signs of human life were present—all they saw were rolling green hills, dull grey skies, and the occasional fairy pool.[1] Allister eventually plopped down upon a large yet smooth boulder and Arthur sat beside him. Despite the chilly air, Arthur still had his jacket in his hands, panting quietly. He scanned the horizon as Allister stretched his arms over his head and yawned loudly.

"God, I love this place," he said. "If I was human and didn't carry all the responsibilities that I do now, I would move here in an instant."

Arthur was aware of Allister's desire for the countryside, so it wasn't surprising to hear this wish of his. The absence of people and the artlessness of nature was definitely attractive or understandable to Arthur, but right now, he couldn't feel any sympathy for his brother.

With a glare, he turned to him. "I really hope you didn't drag me this far just to tell me of a dream that'll never be."

A tight grin etched at Allister's lips, his moss green eyes watching the open abyss around them. "You're such an asshole," he muttered as he laid back upon the boulder with his hands tucked behind his head.

"Seriously, tell me something I don't know."

Silence echoed throughout the ancient hills and slid its way into their conversation once again. Arthur stared at a long and narrow raven flying over the rocky summits in the near distance, waiting for his brother's next set of words, his next explanation. Some time passed but he finally heard him sigh quietly and say, "I was jealous."

Arthur's stare landed on him—he was still laying down beside him, gazing up at the boring, bleak sky as if the clouds were playing his memories like an old television. He raised an eyebrow. "Jealous?" he asked, obviously confused.

"Well, I suppose I was more vengeful than jealous, but I was very…envious once I realized your secret. I thought the most appropriate punishment for you beheading Mary was spilling your marriage to the other nations at the world meeting, so I did just that."

"How did you find out anyway?"

He shrugged. "I can always tell when you're lying."

Arthur shook his head. "Surely that can't just be it."

"You'd be surprised at how great a listener I can be if you took the time to notice. Your face sort of tightens when you lie and you have a grave look in your eye like you are desperate for someone to believe you. And even though everyone spoke in metaphors during the Renaissance, I always thought it weird how often Elizabeth said that she was 'married to her country.' Everyone else thought she meant she was married to her job, but I had different ideas in mind."

"Why didn't you say anything if you had your suspicions earlier?"

"First I thought it was none of my business what you did with your monarch, but as time went on, I suspected Spain would knock her off the throne and put you back in your place. But somehow the most powerful empire in all the world at the time was blown out of the water by the smallest nation in Europe…which doesn't make a lick of sense—"

"Alright, I get it," Arthur interrupted in annoyance. He was trying his best to not start another argument—he had been involved in way too many within the last twenty-four hours and he didn't contain enough verbal strength to carry on another. His eyes flicked back to the lush green mounds and lengthy boulders before them; he thought about his next inquiry before asking it: "Did you really love her? Mary, I mean."

A different kind of silence overtook the peaceful one Allister boasted about earlier. It wasn't heavy with sorrow, yet it didn't hold kindness either. It was just…awkward.

Allister finally heaved a sigh and then answered nonchalantly, "At the time, I believed I was, but now that I think about it, I know that I never did."

A pause. "What do you mean?"

He shifted around on the rock, clearly uncomfortable. "I never saw her as a woman, as the powerful queen she was. Every time I looked at her, all I saw was a little girl in a crown, pulling at my leg, begging me not to let her go. I hadn't felt so…needed before in my life, so that's exactly what I did. I didn't let go of that image of her—I always saw her as a wee princess who needed me to protect her."

Arthur knew he was talking about when Mary had to leave Scotland at the age of five to go to France and wed the little prince there. Of course she didn't want to leave—she had no say in any of it and the cold rainstorms and foggy summits of Scotland was all she ever knew. But still she grew up in the dazzling courts of Paris and eventually realized that she didn't require Allister's approval at her being queen. It was her natural birth right and so was the English throne. She then needed Arthur and Elizabeth's blessing and had her power-hungry eyes set on them both. Allister had been long forgotten; how long it took for him to realize that Arthur didn't know, but it didn't matter. He still hated him for ignoring Mary's pleads and taking her head while she sat hopelessly on her knees.

Feeling sick, Arthur leaned forward with his elbows on his knees and rubbed the fading headache circling his forehead. Allister, not seeing his reaction, mumbled on: "The revenge was sweet for a little while. Not only did James, Mary's only son, win both the Scottish and English throne and continued with the Stuart dynasty for the next several decades, but I managed to reveal your greatest secret to all who would live forever; they would always remember what you'd done and everything you and Elizabeth worked so hard for fell to pieces in the matter of a single sentence. But as time dragged on, I slowly came to realize that the look you had on your face during that world meeting and the few years that followed would never compare to the other catastrophes that you endured for the next five hundred years. The look of searing pain in your eyes during the Great Fire of 1666 wasn't even close to the hurt I saw at the meeting. I had to watch Winston Churchill wheel you into Parliament meetings during the second world war because the injuries on your torso and legs were so bad that you couldn't walk for months. Fucking hell, even seeing you covered in all those bandages and being around you and hearing you talk shit about dying and the end of the world." He shook his head. "Even _that_ wasn't as bad as the day you lost Elizabeth."

"Elizabeth didn't want Mary to die," Arthur muttered into his hands. The ache in his chest was growing stronger; he was long pass his hangover now.

Allister sat up, his eyebrows furrowed. "Huh?"

"I made her sign the death warrant," he continued. He couldn't hide the shame in his voice, yet he attempted to shield it from his face. "All her life people have tried to take the crown away from her, to throw her away like some worthless piece of shit. All her life she was treated like a royal bastard and I couldn't stand another. Mary was getting close and after we discovered that letter where she agreed to the plot of killing Elizabeth and replacing her, I knew I couldn't let her take another step nearer. She didn't want to hear it; everyone wanted Mary dead, too. Elizabeth had always been kind, even to those who hated her. She never saw her, never spoke to her in person, but she argued that Mary was her cousin, the last of her blood and she refused to spill any of it."

He sighed a shaky breath. "But Mary was still a threat and I pressured her into it. Her hand was so slow when she signed the warrant. She wept for so long after I came back from her beheading. And as Elizabeth laid on her deathbed, she finally and rightfully blamed me for compelling her to kill Mary. I've tried to forget those words, try to convince myself that it was the sickness speaking, but even now I know what I did and the pain I've caused her. I've ruined _so many_ people's lives, even my own _wife_ …I'm sorry, Allister."

The memory came back like an oncoming storm, one that you couldn't avoid no matter how far you tried to run. Elizabeth's sickly hands pushing at his chest, tears flowing down her sunken cheeks, her broken voice ringing in his ears. " _You made me do it! It's because of you she's dead and why I'm still grieving her loss!"_

He squeezed his eyes shut. _The past just keeps on coming back for more._

"I believe you," Allister said. "But can we both agree that we both ruined each other's lives?"

Arthur peeked up at him and saw that all-knowing smirk of his. Allister playfully nudged at his face, but accidently hit him a little harder than what he meant to.

"Ow!" Arthur cupped his jawline. "What the fuck was that for?"

Allister laughed loudly, the sound echoing across the mountains. Frustrated, Arthur slammed his fist at his arm which only made Allister laugh harder, now clutching his bicep. "What the hell is wrong with you?"

"Ah, these are the moments I live for, little brother." He let out another chuckle. "Look, ya piece of shit, we're of the same flesh and blood, whether you like it or not, which means I understand why you do the things you do. I may not like it, but I would do the same thing if I were in your shoes. It's just the Kirkland way of thinking, I suppose. Anyway, these heartaches have been going on for way too long now and it's time to stop them. All is forgiven, little brother, so will you please promise me to pick yourself back up and not do anything stupid?"

Arthur didn't answer. Instead he stared at a nearby rabbit hole without really looking at it. A considerable amount of weight lifted from his shoulders, but something still hung on. Guilt, it seemed, did not go away easily.

"You know, it'd be nice if you'd forgive me back," Allister deadpanned, frowning a little. "For my conscious' sake."

He grinned. "I'd forgive you if you'd dive headfirst into the next fairy pool we see."

Allister shoved back at his brother, suppressing his own smile. "Never get a straight answer from you. I suppose that's the best I'm gonna get anyhow, so I'll accept it and save myself from a bad case of hypothermia."

The odd pair sat in silence for a while longer before Allister piped up again. "So, what now?"

Arthur looked at him and then back the surrounding hills. "There's someone else I owe an apology."

 _30 May 2017_

Arthur stood along the Seine, watching the orange sunrise peek over the bustling city of Rouen. People were preparing for the big day ahead of themselves, hanging the last of the few banners across the shops' roofs, placing beautifully decorated garlands where they could fit them, and placing crosses, colorful irises, and small portraits of the French heroine in the middle of the square, where she died.

Children weaved in between the adults with handmade medieval helmets and swords, chasing one another in playful pursuit. The little girls had the biggest smiles on their faces as they clashed their felt swords against their playmates' plastic armor or looked up at the bronze statue of Joan riding her noble steed while raising a flag in her left hand. The girls' admiration for the maiden reminded Arthur of the little girls back home that looked upon Elizabeth's tomb or the famous Spanish Armada painting within Westminster with their own glittering tiaras sitting on their messy head. What a marvelous wonder that two completely different women continue to inspire little girls to make the most of themselves.

He looked at the bundle of red roses in his hand and then saw the red puddles of blood that stained this ground almost seven hundred years ago. Would these petals ever soak up such a mess? Could they replace the gore that had been buried deep in within this soil with blooming beauty once again? He knew not, but still gently placed the flowers at his feet, hoping and praying it'd do just that.

His eyes grazed the Seine once more; it was calm, peaceful. Nothing like that one stormy night when he thought the crying of the skies and the screams of the river would never cease. Had the river forgiven him? Possibly, but the nation himself was a different story.

Arthur watched the river run for a moment more before turning back from whence he came.

 _24 March 2018_

"The vote was two years ago. When does she expect us to leave?"

"It is uncertain, sir, but most likely as soon as the rest of Parliament will allow it. Remember that Scotland and Northern Ireland voted that we stay."

"And Wales and I voted that we leave."

"Yes, but it is important to discuss this with the rest of the EU as well. I suspect that Mr. Ireland has a lot to say on the matter with the trading deals, especially between him and Northern Ireland. Perhaps you should mention this at the world meeting next month."

Arthur sighed into his phone. "Russia is conducting the meeting and he'll want to talk about North Korea's stubbornness and America's ignorance and everything else in between that useless situation."

He threw a quick glance down the road before hastily crossing Abingdon Street and continuing on his way, trying to listen to the bored parliament member on the other end above all the other city chaos happening around him.

"May would appreciate your cooperation in letting the other nations know what Brexit means exactly," came a dull reply.[2]

"Oh, I'm sure she would," he muttered back in an equally unamused tone.

"Mr. England, I'm only—"

"Look, I'm almost to the palace. I'll speak with you in a moment." Arthur hung up the phone before he could say anything else.

Gripping his briefcase tightly, he mustered all the patience he could carry and continue to hold it together for the supposedly "short" conference that the House of Commons was calling for. He caught a few snowflakes slowly drifting their way down from the high heavens, no faster than the drop of a feather. _Thank God it's not windy today_ , he thought as he tugged on his long winter coat. _It's already cold enough as it is._

Just as he was about to cross the street again and enter the Palace of Westminster, something caught his eye on his left. Among the centuries-old buildings, frozen gardens, and crowds of tourists and citizens, he found him again. He was wearing a long black coat (similar to his own) and had his blond hair pulled back in a short ponytail. He had a bouquet of white irises in his hand and he was looking up at Westminster Abbey with a newfound interest as if he never saw it before. A mixture of irritation and surprise tightened within Arthur's chest and he couldn't help but halting in his tracks and calling out, "What are you doing here?"

Francis turned at the sound of his voice, met his gaze, and grinned, raising his hand in greeting. "Ah, what a coincidence, Mr. England. Do you come here often?"

"What are you doing here?" he repeated, still annoyed with his presence.

He lifted the bouquet. "Leaving a gift for a Miss Elizabeth Tudor. Do you know her?"

The rigidity in his chest loosen considerably as he looked at Francis's smirking face to the irises and then back to him. He blinked several times before breathing out, "W-What?"

Obviously satisfied with his reaction, Francis's smile grew. "Something tells me that you do. Why don't you lead me to her?"

Arthur blinked once more and then shook his head as if this was all one incredibly weird dream. "I don't know what you're planning, but I—"

"I'm only returning the favor. You think I wouldn't notice the English roses along the Seine in Rouen last year?"

He swallowed and, not knowing what else to do, turned on his heel. "I believed you would have more important matters to attend to on that day, just like what I do now. So, if you excuse me…"

"Now hold on a moment." Francis quickly caught up with him before he could cross the street. "What could possibly be more important than reliving some old memories? I fully insist that you show me around because I know your people would be a little suspicious of a Frenchman leaving French flowers for the most English women to ever have lived."

Arthur peeked at the blooming flowers in his hand. He had _not_ expected Francis to do anything about those roses he left behind last year. What was he to do now? He could practically hear Elizabeth beside him, nudging his side or lightly pushing him away. " _What beauties! Oh, just accept them, my darling—you're leaving the poor man standing there like a dog in the rain. You know I'd always appreciate a splendid bouquet upon my grave every now and then."_

He glared beside himself and, when seeing nothing but the icy concrete below, sighed helplessly and took the irises. "They won't allow you to take these in there," he muttered under his breath.

Something in Francis's expression rose, though slightly like the slow opening of a grand door. He grinned once again, turning back toward Westminster Abbey. "Well, it's a good thing that you carry them now, isn't that right, Mr. England?"

Arthur rolled his eyes and let out a low huff as he trailed after Francis, entering memory lane on his own accord now.

* * *

[1] Fairy pools are waterfalls that are primarily located in the Isle of Skye, Scotland. The water is a bright green or blue and all sorts of animals are drawn to these like red deer, sheep, rabbits, and a crapload of birds are usually found around them too. The name says it all: they look like something straight out of a Disney princess movie and I wanna go see one SO BAD.

[2] A quick and (hopefully) painless explanation on the Brexit plan in the UK: England and Wales want to leave the European Union, but Scotland and Northern Ireland don't wanna. The EU doesn't want UK to leave either and neither do most of the parliament members in the UK. Prime Minister Theresa May (who wants Brexit to happen) and Leader of the Labor Party Jeremy Corbyn (who doesn't want it to happen) are constantly clashing heads with one another—May resigned as PM recently and now it looks like Corbyn is up against Boris Johnson (another Brexit fan and a member of the Conservative Party) to taking her place. Almost all of 2017 and 2018 in Britain was spent trying to convince everybody why leaving the EU is better and, if things continue this way, the UK will officially leave the EU on 31 October of this year.


	24. Let Them Come and Let Them Go

****This is it, the last chapter to a very long fanfic (I swear I didn't mean to get this far). I really hope you all enjoyed this little adventure and thank you SO much for sticking with me! I also hope this wraps things up well and be on the lookout for other stuff from moi. (I already have another Hetalia fic up my sleeve.)**

 **See y'all soon!****

 _24 March 2018_

Arthur kept a close eye on Francis almost the entire time they were in Westminster Abbey; suspicion never faded from his sharp stare. He followed him carefully like a thief in the night with his arms crossed and the bouquet of snow white irises held loosely in his right hand. Of course he didn't trust that twat in the slightest—what reason did he have to do so? For all he knew, this could be a trick, some cruel tease that could end with bloody knuckles and a chipped heart. So he kept his distance and his glare in check.

Yet Francis showed no signs for doing anything of the sort. In fact, he appeared genuinely interested as he strolled through the enormous hallways, observing the Gothic architecture and priceless artifacts as if he never stepped foot within the church's walls before. He would periodically ask Arthur questions that revolved around Elizabeth's time in Westminster: "Is she a popular attraction for tourists here?" "Was Westminster her favorite palace?" "Her coronation was held here, correct?"

These were rather pointless questions—he was asking them out of uneasiness from Arthur's silent and deadly glare, even though the answers were already plastered upon plaques around the building. He was no tour guide and gave only brief, vague responses: "Her tomb, yes." "No, she preferred Richmond." " _All_ English coronations have been performed here since 1200."

Francis accepted the replies, nevertheless, and moved on.

They eventually wandered into Henry VII's Chapel where all the Tudors were buried. Naturally, a large group of visitors were clustered around the most popular attraction there despite the small amount of space given. Having seen her effigy hundreds of times before, Arthur hung back and watched Francis inch forward, peeking over heads and around shoulders to catch a glimpse of the fantastic stone coffin.

While Francis silently struggled to see anything, Arthur figured he had some time to think this situation over. _He's acting like he's never been here before when I_ know _he's attended a few coronations or weddings or some other occasions. Did he plan this? Did he purposefully stand outside the abbey, hoping I'd walk by and then drag me in here to relive it all again?_

 _"_ _What a deeply apprehensive creature you are!"_ Elizabeth laughed in his head, amusement and fascination lacing her voice.

He could see her as clear as day—her red curls bounced and her long gown twirled as she circled Francis like a curious cat eyeing a new toy. She grinned mischievously. _"Oh, I remember Lord France very well. Spoke like a poet, bowed like a gentleman. And my, look at that strong jawline and what an excellent pair of lips he has!"_

Arthur's glare sharpened. _I wouldn't get too close now. You don't know where that thing has been._

She raised an eyebrow at him. " _They've been kissing your ass for centuries, my darling."_

He inhaled and exhaled slowly, reminding himself to not say a thing aloud. _I can't believe you're taking his side!_

 _"_ _Oh, please. As if I would stoop so lowly as to agree with a Frenchman before I agree with you."_

 _Pardon my awful memory, love, but you'll have to remind me when you ever agreed with anything I said during our marriage._

Playful giggles echoed in his mind as Elizabeth's ghost stepped to the side, her fingers weaved together, her gaze locked with his. She paused for a moment with a faint smile upon her ruby lips and then said in a tone full of wisdom and love: _"I will always be on your side, but there are times when we must ask for assistance in our personal lives. Some circumstances are simply too substantial for us to carry alone. You keep insisting on dragging the weight of my death with each step you take and, my dear beloved, that's not how you're supposed to live. Walk through your life with as little baggage as possible and don't be afraid to reach out for others when you're in need of help. Of course, I will always be here for you, but this man, this moving and breathing man, is offering you a hand in this recovery and I strongly advise you take it."_ She smiled sadly. " _I don't want you to hurt yourself anymore."_

Arthur glanced back at Francis pathetically standing off to the side, awkwardly waiting for the human tourists to move on. Could things between them seriously change? After so many years of hatred and suffering? Was it ever too late to start?

He pursed his lips in thought. _Would he ever forgive me?_

Elizabeth's smile softened somewhat as if he were a child asking for a big hug before being sent to bed. She strolled over to him and he felt her gingerly place her hand upon his shoulder and press her lips to his cheek as though she were really there.

 _"_ _You won't know unless you ask."_

He blinked and turned to look at her, but she was already gone, tucked back into a corner in his mind. His shoulders slumped a little at her sudden absence, longing for her touch and to hear her soothing voice once again, yet he knew he couldn't linger on those thoughts for too long. He then straightened up, exhaled lowly, and then marched toward the tourists.

He didn't say anything as he lightly nudged people out of the way, holding the bouquet of irises out in front of him as if it were the torch that lighted his way through. They stumbled to the side, but their eyes lit up at the beautiful memorial in his hands. He could feel everyone's gaze on him (including Francis's) but he didn't care—he's done this plenty of times before.

Arthur leaned down and carefully set the flowers on the tiled floor, right in front of the two plaques that stated both Elizabeth and Mary's names in Latin.[1] He stood back up and glanced at the effigy. It was an extraordinary thing, really—although Elizabeth would beg to differ, claiming that the laying statue of her looked too ancient with too many wrinkles on her face, Arthur was fond of it. He believed it truly captured the strength and endurance she carried as queen with that powerful tiara on her head and the proud scepter in her right hand. It was one of the few monuments in London that he'd never lose interest in seeing. He gazed at it a while longer before turning on his heel and walking out the chapel; he didn't have to wait for Francis to catch up.

They went back out into the bitter London air, snow now littering the ground and dancing with the wind as if they hadn't seen each other in years (which, of course, was utter bullshit). Arthur stopped in his tracks and turned back to Francis, his lips set in his natural frown.

"How long have you been here?" he asked bluntly.

Francis seemed a little taken aback by the demand, but answered nevertheless. "Since around nine this morning. I wasn't planning on staying for long however."

"Have you book a flight yet?"

"No." He gestured to Westminster behind them. "The only idea I had for the day was to educate myself and leave the flowers somewhere, but you did all that for me, so…" He shrugged. "I guess I'm done here."

Arthur pursed his lips, heaved a sigh, and looked around them. "I need to speak with you before you go."

Francis smirked. "I figured you had something to say about my unexpected visit." He pushed a hand forward. "Lead on then."

Arthur frowned again and turned sharply on his heel and starting walking away from Westminster. Not only did he want to get away from the eyes of Westminster Palace right next to the abbey and from one of the busiest and crowded spots in downtown London, but he was a little afraid to speak of Elizabeth when she was so near. He couldn't share the details of such a tightly-sealed secret with mortal ears so nearby—it was too risky. Instead he took one final glance at the grand doors of Westminster Abbey—at the spot where he and Elizabeth shared their first kiss—and then marched back down Abingdon Street.

It was an awfully chilly day, so there weren't too many people out and about, but that also meant they were all in heated buildings or decided to drive instead of walk to work. They came upon Lambeth Bridge (which was never too terribly crowded in the first place) and, upon seeing only a few travelers here and there, Arthur decided it was as good a place as any. He walked a few paces out onto the bridge and then leaned forward on the slick railing, peering down the not-quite-frozen Thames. They couldn't see much of the notable features of London like the Eye or Big Ben considering both their distance and the ash-colored sky above; from where they stood, it appeared like any other city.

"Whew!" Francis adjusted his collar and rubbed his leather gloves together. "It's very cold out here today."

"It's not that bad," Arthur muttered under his breath, but Francis didn't hear him.

"I must admit, it's not as cruel as Canada's winters," he added. "Whenever I go to visit Mattheu, I usually make an effort to go during the spring or summer. He tries to visit me in the winter—he says the winters in Europe are actually pleasant."

"Did he tell that to Napoleon back in 1812?"[2]

Francis crossed his arms and glared. "Unless you have anything useful to say, then I'm going to go ahead and book that flight back to Paris."

Arthur hung his head and knitted his fingers together. Why was this so hard to do? The words were right there on his lips, ready to spill like a waterfall into the situation, but he didn't want it like that. He'd rather it be like honey, slow and planned. He pondered how to form and mold the words into something presentable, but it was taking too much time and the winter wind only grew harsher.

"Well?" Francis pressured. "Are you not going to say some—?"

"I'm sorry, okay?" he bit back, shouting into the Thames. "About her, Joan. I'm sorry I let things get out of hand. I knew she wasn't a witch, a child of Satan, or anything of the sort—she was a kid, no, a true messenger of God. The things that happened around her were just too uncanny to ignore; she knew things that no one could've predicted. I knew she was telling the truth, but…" He exhaled a shaky breath. "I was so caught up in the war; I was so close and she was ruining that for me and everyone else wanted her gone as much as I, so I let them have her. I let her burn and…I'm so sorry for that." He paused. "I now know how you feel."

The chilly whipping breeze and the noise of city life were the only sounds that filled the conversation between them for a long time. The silence, however, was louder than any siren, bell toll, or winter scream and it hammered against Arthur's eardrums, reminding him of what he had done. He clasped his hands over his ears for a moment before shooting up and barking at Francis, "Well? Aren't you going to say anything?"

He was surprised to find the smallest of smiles etched upon his lips already. Francis looked at Arthur's panicked face for a while and then reached into his coat pocket.

"I knew you were sorry the instant I saw those roses by the Seine," he confessed as he pulled out a box of matches and a silver lighter. "That was the first time you went out of your way to bring up Jeanne's death which definitely surprised me. But to be remorseful about it? For a second, I thought it to be too good to be true."

He offered a cigarette to Arthur, but he shook his head (he already had his fill of tobacco smoke just by living in London). "Well, why didn't you say anything earlier?" he asked as Francis lit up the end of his cigarette and blew out a grey cloud into the equally grey atmosphere.[3]

"I should be asking you that about Jeanne unless you only began to feel guilty recently." He peeked at Arthur and broadened his smile a little. "But I really appreciated the symbolism and decided to follow suit."

Arthur rolled his eyes. _He's such a hopeless romantic, it's irritating._ He hesitated before asking the biggest question of them all: "Can you ever forgive me?"

Francis stared at him and, while he did, his smile slowly began to diminish like the cigarette smoke before them. He grew subdued again, his eyes glassy, his lips drooping. He probably saw the fire in him, heard the screams, smelled the burning flesh, tasted the salty tears in the back of his throat. Did he see that every time he looked at him?

"I don't know," he finally answered and then took another drag.

Arthur sighed and leaned on the railing once again. "Yeah, I suppose that's too much to ask for."

Francis leaned on the railing as well and twirled the cigarette between his fingers. "Have you only felt guilty recently?" he asked in a soft voice as if he were afraid of the answer.

Arthur glanced at his twitching hand and then peered out into the Thames. "No, I've always felt responsible, I suppose. It's just getting harder to hide recently. I've…been hearing Elizabeth quite often lately. She tells me I need to stop mourning and start living once again. I spoke with Scotland last year about this—I thought he felt the same about Mary Stuart, but turns out he didn't which didn't help my case much…"

Francis chuckled and Arthur went on as if he didn't hear it. "But he and many others told me to speak to you because they all knew about you and Joan just like they do about Elizabeth and I, so…" He shrugged, feeling a blush spread across his cheeks. "I took their advice."

He could feel his body tense up the longer the conversation lasted. It was as if he were a reverse icicle—he became more rigid, more uncomfortable as time wore on. He questioned everything he did and everything Francis said, analyzing each step and determining if it was forward or backward. God, how he _hated_ not knowing what to do.

"Jeanne talks to me too," Francis remarked, "but it's usually about what I'm doing wrong or what I can do to improve the state of my country. She liked finding flaws and fixing them—still does, I suppose."

Arthur blinked. "And how often do you hear her? Do you listen to her?"

"I always listen, but I don't always obey. And I only hear her whenever I'm stressed."

"Why's that?"

He looked at him as if it were obvious. "Because she is a ghost, after all. If I were to do all that she asked of me, then I would be letting her take over my mind once again and I would lose my sense of reality. I would live in a cruel fantasy where she is still breathing and if the real world were to contact with it in any form, I'd break my own heart all over again. So, if it is Elizabeth telling you to move on, then it really is her speaking to you because you wouldn't tell yourself that."

Arthur went to uncurl his spine and step back from the railing but became distracted by a slight tug at his elbow. There she was again, his dear Lizzie in her burgundy wedding dress and with the wind in her wild red mane. She was gazing up at him with a grin that suggested she knew some secret unbeknownst to him. Her hold on him tightened and it only relaxed when he returned to his spot by the railing.

He remained aware of Elizabeth's presence (just like he always did) as he aimed his stare toward the busy streets of London, a halfway-point between the bitter Thames and Francis's concentrated expression. Then he wondered if Joan was present as well—within Francis's mind at least. Was she too standing off to the side with a knowing look in her eye, impatiently waiting for him to let her go?

"I really did have to educate myself on Queen Elizabeth's reign," Francis added in a somewhat lighter voice. "I'd only met her in person once or twice and I wasn't paying too much attention to whatever it was you were doing. The late sixteenth century was a busy time for me."[4] He tapped the end of his cigarette, causing the crumpled ash to dripple into the lapping waters below.

"You were in London around 1579 for a ball," Arthur recalled as he rested his chin upon his knuckles. "You brought along the Duke of Anjou in hopes of setting up a marriage negotiation between them."[5]

Francis tilted his head back in realization. "Oh, that's right."

Arthur couldn't stop the amused smirk from crawling up his lips. "You do realize that she was never laughing _with_ him, right? The joke was always on him."

He reminisced that night with a chuckle in his throat. The grand ballroom of Westminster Palace was filled with English nobles, French aristocrats, and ambassadors from Spain, Sweden, Austria, and every other country that tried and failed to win the hand of the Virgin Queen. Arthur was stuck talking either with Privy Council members (they were divided on having a French duke as Elizabeth's husband) or with Francis (who, despite having to walk with a cane and blinking with a bruised eye, still managed to capture the attention of almost every female—and some male—guest in the room). Elizabeth was flitting from person to person, striking up all sorts of conversations and dancing with whoever offered her to, yet she always had time for François of Anjou whether it was over a glass of red wine or somewhere on the dancefloor. She was clearly enjoying her time with him; she laughed at most things he said and her eyes browsed his figure every now and then.

He couldn't recall the discussion he and Francis were having, but of course he remembered Elizabeth interrupting it. "Pardon my intrusion, Lord France," she said in French. "I do hope Lord Kirkland isn't boring you with his monotone, one-worded responses. I apologize on his behalf."

While Arthur sent her a deadpanned stare, Francis took her outstretched hand and kissed it gingerly with that charming smirk of his. "Do not fret, Your Majesty. I've been carrying on most of our ballroom tête-à-têtes for many centuries without too much trouble."

"Good. I'm glad." She gave him an equally enchanting smile. "And be rest assured that the kingdom of England will provide provisions and hospitality to all suffering Protestants in your country."

Francis bowed lowly before her. "I thank you dearly from the bottom of my heart; my gratitude for your gracious efforts is limitless." He straightened up and offered her his hand. "Although this cane permits me from performing any extravagant dance, I can still do simple routines, if Your Majesty will allow it."

Her smile shifted to fake sorrow. "I have no doubts about it, my lord, but please do not be disheartened when I say that I came here to offer Lord Kirkland a dance—I have matters of business to discuss with him. But I'm quite sure that any other dame in this room would accept your proposal."

Francis awkwardly drew back his hand as Arthur, with a suppressed yet visible grin, held out his; Elizabeth took it immediately. As he guided her to the dancefloor, he leaned toward her and whispered, "Your response has made this entire night worthwhile; the satisfaction is remarkable."

"I'm happy for you." She looked at him with sparks of amusement lighting up her eyes. "Can you _believe_ that such a creature as the Duke of Anjou exists? I've never met such a man before in all my life—well, a woman perhaps, but definitely not a man."

"Everyone seems to think that you two are quite attracted to one another."

"What poor, misguided fools. Perhaps they had mistaken my laughter for fun instead of embarrassment and my wandering eyes for lust instead of confusion. Nevertheless, I think I'll let him linger for a while longer—he's awfully amusing and I'm not quite finished with him yet."

They twirled around the ballroom like two leaves fluttering in a spring breeze, chatting and giggling about their foreign guests the whole way.

"Even so," Francis said, bringing Arthur back to the present, "he did so much better than Phillip II ever did."

"It's not like either of them could get any further."

"Throw me a bone, for God's sake. It won't kill you."

He peeked at him once more. Francis's gaze had not met his, but remained straight ahead, locked onto the grey abyss that blanketed the entire city. He had his chin in his palm and his cigarette dangling between his fingers, his face expressionless. The vacant stare in his eye, for some unfamiliar reason, weighed down Arthur's heart like a stone. Kiku's recollection of Nagasaki was suddenly brought to life, his sympathy, his concern. He had dismissed it all with a swig of the bottle and the internal struggle went on as though Kiku's helping hand never reached out in the first place. And here he was again, being offered another chance to lean on someone's shoulder and confess his sufferings. And maybe, just maybe, Francis needed hope as well.

He opened his mouth to say something, anything, but Francis beat him to it and he didn't dare to interrupt him. "I tried every possible way to get to her, but they all failed. I begged my king to send a party out to retrieve her or to pay the ransom the Burgundians were asking for, but he refused to do anything about it. I didn't possess the same confidence or assurance that Jeanne did, so I couldn't gather my own troops to assist me in breaking her out of prison—they were afraid of what would happen if we were caught. Realizing this was something that only I could do, I set off to do just that, but a fellow soldier reported my plans to my king and he had me arrested. I was stuck there for way too long and I grew anxious with each passing hour and, in my panic, I killed many of my own men in order to escape my cell and get to Rouen. But…I was still too late."

Francis hesitated; his ocean eyes glassed over in thought for a moment, but then he blinked and brought himself back to the present. He went on murmuring, "I watched her burn and I watched you throw her heart into the river. I dived in without a second thought and once I held it in my hands, I knew that I was the one who really killed her. You may have set her on fire, but I was the one who chained her to the stake. If only I'd arrived earlier, history would have been rewritten entirely. It's just easier to blame you." He looked at Arthur, a little subdued. "And I'm sorry for doing that to you."

Arthur remained speechless as his throat constricted and his stomach dropped at those words. He stared at the heaviness in Francis's eyes, at the sincerity of it all. _He_ was apologizing to _him_? This day just kept on getting stranger and stranger to say the least.

He adverted his eyes, feeling self-conscious and guiltier than before. He had no idea what to say to that, so he acted as though he never heard that last confession and instead asked, "Does the heart still exist?"

A pause. "Yes."

"Do you still have it?"

"Yes."

"Where do you keep it?"

Francis's reply came in a low growl: "I'm not telling you that."

Arthur bit his lip, took a deep breath, and then gripped his elbows in fear. He obviously needed to change the subject before things went downhill once again. His voice came out in a cautious murmur: "Joan didn't allow any to come near her, at least in my experiences with her. Yes, she was imprisoned and treated with the utmost cruelty by my own men, but she only spoke fondly of you and God during her trials—sometimes I'd wonder who she loved more."

There was a moment of silence before Francis mumbled out, "God without a doubt." His response was so low that Arthur would've missed it if he weren't listening for it. He questioned if he had crossed a line somewhere, but Francis quickly recovered and moved on.

"Like Elizabeth, Jeanne deeply cared for people, no matter what ethnicity they were. Several times I've seen her comfort dying English soldiers and then cry once they passed. She always gave you a chance to retreat before sending troops after you. Even in the end she still prayed for peace between us." A tiny grin shaped his lips. "And like Elizabeth, she also knew who wasn't worth her time."

Arthur tried to see the past through Francis's eyes. He could see Joan in her white armor with tears running down her face, standing among piles of rotting corpses and pools of black blood. Francis would've said something comforting (at least what he _thought_ would be comforting) like "You did all you could, maiden—you did wonderfully" or "Perhaps God intended things to be this way." Whatever his comment, Arthur, clear as day, saw Joan turn toward him and say through her compassionate tears, "English or not, they still deserve to be mourned; their lives could've been spared, they could've returned home to their families. They were people and thus they deserved a chance."

He was reminded of the Treaty of Antwerp:

 _He stared back, more baffled than ever before. "Then why did you sign it?"_

 _In an impatient tone, she muttered out, "Because people are dying, Arthur. That should be a legitimate excuse for doing so. More innocent people are being slaughtered because of their religion!" She shook her head sadly. "We all worship the same God; why can't they comprehend that?"_

The iconic picture of Joan sitting on a horse in full solider attire with her standard gripped tightly in her hand floated to his mind. He could hear her cheering on her men with such passion and determination in her voice it was as if she were speaking to his soul. "Offer your heart to France and your spirit to God! Surrender is not an option, for as long as you follow my lead, victory will be in our hands once again. Give me your anxieties and doubts—you won't need them any longer with God on our side. Together we will take back what is rightfully France's and drive the English back to whence they came!"

He recalled Elizabeth's presentation at Tilbury:

 _But now, as Arthur looked around him, the fear had subsided. In some cases, it was completely gone. They all gazed at their queen with the utmost respect and amazement as she proudly claimed that she too would die fighting for their country. The light reflected off her armor and, with England's flag raised high above her head, she looked simply everlasting. The sensation of authority and bravery she carried deeply touched each soldier's heart and made him feel like he could take on the Spanish Armada by himself—and then some more._

Even though Joan had more enemies than she did friends, Arthur was well aware of her loyalty to said friends and her bitter bite toward her rivals. When asked by her judges if she would try to escape her cell once again, she lifted her chin and answered, "Yes. My men need my help back on the battlefield and I have every intention to get back there. A few iron bars and a couple of English guards cannot frighten me into obeying you." And how could he forget that venomous glare she'd throw at him every time he'd walk into her line of sight. "You're not welcomed here," the scowl seemed to say. "Begone! This isn't your home!"

He remembered Elizabeth's response to the Protestants of the Netherlands and the Catholics of Spain:

 _"_ _Are you sure you don't want the title of Governor General? It's frankly a little odd that you're rejecting it."_

 _She hesitated but eventually responded with the same authoritative stare that hardly ever slipped from her face: "I am honored by their proposal, but they must understand that I'm already fully dedicated to my home country, England of the British Isles. I don't mind providing assistance to other countries, but I cannot be responsible for them."_

 _Elizabeth lingered in the powerfully intimidating aura that spawned from her and then shattered the silence with a low but all the more crucial tone._

 _"_ _If it's a fight that Philip wants, then it's a fight he'll get," she muttered through her teeth. "Only I shall rule this country, no matter what any Catholic has to say about it. We'll send our own armada and catch those bastards before the sun sets on their first day at sea."_

As these comparisons ran through his mind, Arthur closed his eyes, frowned, and scrunched his eyebrows together as if they caused him physical harm. "I really am sorry," he whispered into the dark void that separated him and Francis for thousands of years. "For everything."

A spark of light—a beacon of hope—brightened the abyss, although dimly. The silence wasn't as deafening anymore and the vastness of the place shrunk somewhat. The gap between them was still present, yet it had softened. It was strange, but the oddness only grew in size once he caught Francis mumbling, "I know you are and I appreciate your concern, but don't continue to beat yourself up over it."

Arthur glanced up and met Francis's gaze. It still carried some sorrow, yet reassurance and comfort shone brightly through it all. He smiled softly and said, "I realize that my words can only take you so far, but if it's my advice you want, then I guess I'll try my best." He took another sip from his cigarette and then flicked it into the river below (Arthur pretended to not have seen that). He then faced him fully with one arm still resting upon the railing; he wore an expression of concentration, his eyes focused, his lips set. He hardly blinked when a long trail of smoke flew from a break between his lips.

"You can't hold onto the past while reaching for the future," he stated firmly yet gently. "It's impossible; trust me, I've tried. So, in order to move onward, you must leave your past behind."

"You think I go looking for it in the first place?" Arthur intervened (although he didn't mean to). "I don't purposefully dwell on the memories, searching for more heartbreak. It always comes at the worst of times. And besides, I've been trying to do just that all along."

Francis shook a finger at him as if he just figured out his problem. "But you're still holding onto them, despite how or when they come. Think of the memories as the waves on a beach shore. You obviously can't stop the waves from coming, but you can stop yourself from drowning. So let them come and let them go because if you struggle or try to move away, then the waves will eventually drag you from the shore and the sea—your past—will swallow you whole. There's no sense in trying to run from the ocean or submerging yourself in it either." He smiled once more. "Just let them come and let them go."

Arthur absorbed the words with a tinge of uncertainty in his chest. Francis made it seem so easy, as if moving on from a lost love were a mere phone call away or a simple purchase at a store. He apparently noticed the worried look in Arthur's face and, still wearing his smile, shrugged nonchalantly.

"It'll be difficult the first few times, but I know you'll come around."

"How do you know that?"

"Because I'm pretty sure Elizabeth agrees with me. And I also know that you'd do anything for her."

He frowned at Elizabeth's giggle beside him as she tugged on his elbow and said, _"You just can't seem to win, can you?"_

Before he could subtly glare at her, Francis added, "But I would do anything for Jeanne, so when she tells me that I've been dwelling on the past for too long, I make sure to aim my gaze toward the future and what I can do to improve it. That's what she would've wanted; she always looked forward, never back. I presume Elizabeth did the same thing and wants you to keep moving instead of staying behind." He hesitated and then widened his smile. "But for now, let's let the wave of memories come forth."

Arthur's eyebrows scrunched together. "What?"

"You know, let's not bottle up our emotions and thoughts until we explode in an ugly outcry of tears and regrets, shall we? It's absolutely exhausting. So…" He leaned on the railing again with his chin in his palm. "What's your happiest memory of Elizabeth?"

Arthur, a little doubtful and anxious, sighed lowly and shifted his weight around. "Oh, stop being such a pain in the ass and answer the question," Francis said in a sarcastic tone (but Arthur knew he wasn't being sarcastic in the slightest).

Realizing there was no way out of this one, he finally supplied his answer (although it took him no time to reflect upon): "The day I married her."

Francis nodded. "Mine's the day she first told me she loved me."

They soon lost track of time, for they talked fondly of their lost loves, telling stories and recollections of them that history textbooks didn't share. Francis spoke of Joan with such passion and joy in his words that her notorious temper seemed like a minor difficulty or inconvenience.[6] Arthur found himself quite eager to chat about his adventures with Lizzie, ranging from her beauty, to her intelligence, to her witty retorts. Hardly any argument was brought up between the two throughout this exchange (which was a miracle within itself). By the end of it all, their cheeks burned from the cold and several flakes of snow had clung to their hair and clothes.

Both glanced toward the drifting snowflakes from above, finally registering their stiff legs and icy breaths. "I guess that's our cue to let the memories go again," Francis said.

Arthur peeked at him. He was watching the grey clouds slowly crawl away with a faint smile upon his lips as if he were silently saying goodbye to his forever-young angel just beyond the clouds. He looked so at peace, so calm and collected despite having to part from Joan's ghost once again. But that's what she was, wasn't she? A ghost with a yearning to her name.

He held his breath and then slowly turned his head toward Elizabeth. He then blinked in confusion once he failed to find her there or anywhere nearby. It was strange for her to leave so suddenly with no word of farewell—he didn't even feel her retract her grasp from his elbow—but that wasn't exactly true, was it? She wasn't leaving him, he was simply letting her go.

He slowly released his breath and, along with it, a considerable weight from his shoulders.

"I guess I should head back to Paris," Francis announced, stepping back from the railing and shaking the snow out of his blond locks. "I'm sure Hollande is throwing a fit as to where I am now."

Arthur nodded as he pulled out his phone. "Parliament has called me twelve times and has left five messages. They must think I've been kidnapped by an illegal immigrant."

Francis laughed. "Well, they wouldn't be completely wrong."

An awkward silence settled over the odd pair, much like the soft snow around them. Anxiety bubbled within Arthur's chest once more; he peered at Francis as if he were expecting something from him when really he was expecting something from himself.

Francis cleared his throat and said, "See you in Moscow next month?"

Arthur nodded his head once.

Francis pursed his lips, raised a hand in parting, and began making his way off the bridge. Arthur watched him go, chewing anxiously on the inside of his cheek while his heart leapt to his throat in a single bound. The rapid beating of his heart grew faster the further he got away. He knew he couldn't let it end like this, so he called out his name in hopes of changing things.

"Bonnefoy."

As expected, Francis slowed to a stop and turned halfway to meet him. Arthur swallowed whatever fear was clogging up his lungs and then said, "Thank you. For everything."

His curious expression didn't shift at first (he probably thought he misheard him) which only sped up the pounding in Arthur's ears. Eventually a small yet very grateful smile brightened his features as he replied in an equally honest voice, "Anytime."

Once Francis disappeared from view, blending into the colorless March backdrop, Arthur responded to the messages on his phone as he hurried back to Westminster Palace. When an annoyed Parliament member asked him where he had gone, he merely stated, "I ran into an old friend."

 _There is nothing about which I am more anxious than my country, and for its sake I am willing to die ten deaths, if it be possible._

 _Queen Elizabeth I_

* * *

[1] Elizabeth's tomb is located in Henry VII's Chapel within Westminster Abbey, the same place she held her coronation in 1558. Her effigy was placed over her sister's in 1606 (which goes to show how much people respected and admired Elizabeth over Mary—I mean, she killed like 300 people at the stake so she kinda had it coming). King James I paid for the white marble effigy that is now placed over Elizabeth's original coffin, but didn't make it as tall as Mary, Queen of Scots' effigy which is located at the opposite side of the chapel. Many additions or replacements have been made on her tomb overtime (people do that to very important dead people and you gotta do that when things get old anyway) but it is still a remarkable thing to see, to know that Elizabeth was dearly loved and missed and still gets so much attention, even in death.

[2] During the Napoleonic Wars in Europe in the early 1800s, the French tried invading Russia head on and they succeeded—for a short time anyway. They took over some of the western portions of Russia (present day Poland) in mid-summer of 1812 but they were out of there by November. As they descended deeper into Russian territory, aiming for Moscow, all the Russians did was keep on retreating and burning their own supplies along the way; they knew the winters were harsh in their country and knew the French couldn't last that long without proper provisions just to keep them warm and healthy. Both sides suffered heavy casualties (mainly due to the weather): the French lost 300,000 out of 500,000 men while Russia lost over 200,000. Only one battle took place during this wild goose chase (the Battle of Borodino) and roughly 70,000 lives were lost that one day. (Literally nothing good happens when you try to invade Russia so please stop trying everyone.)

[3] Fun fact I learned in French class: Last year, about 27% of France's population smoked daily, but that's 2% less than what it was like in 2016 (roughly 1 million people stopped smoking). 15% of adults in England, however, are smokers which means roughly 6 million smoke in a population of 55 million and the numbers are continuing to decrease. I just thought it would be cool to put this in here because I have read a few fanfics where Francis smokes and I've noticed a lot of French celebrities smoking so yeah…

[4] Remember that note about St. Bartholomew's Day a few chapters back? Well, that certainly wasn't the only bloody massacre of Protestants in France during the Renaissance period. Throughout the majority of Elizabeth's reign, France was at war with itself (again) from 1562-1598, deciding which official religion the country should be: Catholic or Huguenot (French word for Protestant). Catherine de Médici (Queen of France) was super Catholic and is said to have ordered the massacre of St. Bartholomew's Day which stirred up even more riots and killings. The Religion Wars ended when Henry IV took the throne and converted from Protestantism to Catholicism. He then issued the Edict of Nantes, a law granting rights and freedoms to the Huguenots (Catholics weren't really happy about this but they didn't do too much about it). Just as Elizabeth is regarded as England's best monarch, this was the case with Henry and France, often dubbed as "Good King Henry" for his wise choice of advisors, government stability, and kicking up the poor economy.

[5] It is a hotly debated topic in the life of Elizabeth Tudor if she ever had intentions to marry her last and probably favorite suitor, François of Anjou. He is the only one of her suitors to meet her in person and, despite the 22-year gap between them, they apparently really hit it off. Elizabeth gave him the nickname "my frog" which some think is a term of endearment, but we all know that when English-folk call the French "frog", it's not because it's cute. (Elizabeth called Robert Cecil "pygmy" because he was short, so yeah, I don't think she was being nice to François there.) The Duke was also known for being quite the character: he sometimes wore women's clothing (including corsets) just for fun and was incredibly open with being bisexual. (Keep in mind that doing either of things back in day was definitely looked down upon and people would call you a witch and probably burn you.) Elizabeth flirted with François for about three years before sending him back to France, breaking off any sort of engagement or ties she had with him.

[6] Like Elizabeth, Joan was known for being terribly short-tempered. In fact, it was so bad that many young boys absolutely refused to go into the army because they knew they would be under the strict command of Joan of Arc and feared any sort of punishment or order she'd give them. She was angry at many things: the prostitutes that'd follow the army around (apparently a few fists were thrown from her when she ordered them to leave and they refused), any use of swear words from her soldiers, and she even smacked a Scottish soldier when he stole a loaf of bread to feed his starving self. What made Joan's blood boil, however, were the horrible insults she received from English soldiers who'd often call her a slut, whore, or told her to "go back to her cows and chickens" back home. She'd go into a fiery frenzy of tears and trembling fists, and swore she'd have them all killed if they didn't shut their trap.


End file.
